Behind the Scenes
by NotAContrivance
Summary: Lizzie Bennet Diaries. "In what universe would Darcy be in my bedroom?" THIS ONE.
1. Open Book

So, this is one of several things I've been working on in the past months or so, really the main thing that's consuming my mind, but I kinda started writing it bassackwards, and so far most of it's done, but I haven't entirely figured out where I'm going to take it. Coincidentally I finished the chapter very early this morning, finally, so I figured I'd post it before, well, what will inevitably ensue this week. As a kind of pre-Darcy present.

As the title suggests, this isn't meant to be canon or anything... it's not what I think was actually happening but merely to present an alternative view of what things could've been happening between the videos and the tweets and all those things Lizzie doesn't say. It's kind of out-of-character, but... maybe a bit more in-character for this Lizzie. Hopefully I'll get to explaining that... But I suppose you could say Lizzie herself gave me the idea for it, at least partly because no one on the LBD seemed to be getting laid and there's a serious dearth of even semi-sexy times. Anyway, this story kind of morphed into being more than what I imagined, and I got to write a lot more characters than I intended. Anyway, some things may be off because I was too lazy to go back and correct them because we found them out after I'd started writing, and I apologize for that.

And, Isabelle, this one goes out to you for putting up with all of my talk and torture and random snippets. You'll have the answer to your question soon enough. ;)

Also, because it is obligatory that I must say this, even though it should be fairly obvious by this point, I don't own the Lizzie Bennet Diaries. Or anything remotely resembling it aside from the book and the movie. Or any of the various books referenced herein. Aside from paper copies of some of them, but I don't own the words like I own this story... Anyway, hope you enjoy!

* * *

The two of them were lying somewhat uncomfortably on the couch. She was flat on her back; he was sandwiched between her and the back of the couch, his body half-reclined at an odd angle. He was a bit too tall to rest entirely comfortably or easily there, but for the moment he didn't care. Her side was pressed against his, and that was all he felt. Their chests were still heaving, and, for a while, the sounds of their breaths in tandem was all the sound in the room. He thought it one of the most beautiful sounds he'd ever heard. Their clothes were in a messy pile on the floor in front of the sofa, which barely contained their awkwardly-entwined limbs.

Lizzie brought her head up, lightly pushing herself up from the couch. Her slightly sweaty skin was sticking to the fabric unpleasantly. She let out a heavy breath, throwing an arm over her head, vainly shifting in an attempt to become more comfortable. She was trying, equally vainly, not to think about how _amazing_ that had just been. "What... was that?" she muttered incredulously, still a little breathless. She was both surprised and embarrassed at how husky her voice came out.

He twisted a bit, turning his head so that he could look at her properly, giving her a knowing look. Feeling his stare and not wanting to face his scrutiny, not _now_, she brought her hand down to cover her eyes. They both knew what it was, but everything hadn't quite sunk in yet. Both of them were still unable to believe what had just happened had _actually_ happened, let alone process it. He was perhaps a bit more satisfied than she was, and if she'd bothered to look, she would've seen the wide, I-just-got-laid smile he was wearing. She might've softened, having never actually seen him smile, but the smugness in his expression probably would've also made her want to punch him in the nose.

As it was, the shame and mortification slowly started to seep in on her end, and he watched, vaguely amused and admiringly, as the faint red tint of blush spread across her skin. His smile softened, and he bent down unthinkingly to kiss her, his hand sliding across her breast like it belonged there. Her breath caught in her throat for a second at the unexpected contact, and then his tongue was in her mouth, and it was all just too much. She grunted and pushed him away hard with her free hand, holding him up above her by the shoulder. "_What_ are you doing?" she hissed, holding him away firmly, even despite his attempts to bend back down.

"What does it look like?" he muttered half-sarcastically, leaning down again with the intent of kissing her. He didn't want to have sex again, as she might've thought, but he'd kissed her with the intent of claiming her. He had the foolish notion that somehow, because of what they'd just done, she was his for the taking. Lizzie couldn't have understood it, even if she had wanted to, but he wanted her more now than he had before he'd gotten her naked. She pushed him back a bit more forcibly, not wanting his body to cover hers again, shaking her head, unable to say a word or think quite coherently. His face fell, smile turning to a frown, brow knitting up in confusion.

Lizzie sat up slowly, removing his hand from her breast and feeling herself flush horribly. His gaze was on her once again, taking in everything, and it made Lizzie feel hot. He sighed and bent over her, reaching down to grab his shirt, covering her with it. She stared at him with wide, disbelieving doe eyes, a look in them so familiar to him that it made him feel instantly sick to his stomach. Gigi had that look too, once. He averted his gaze from her respectfully, fully expecting her to wrap herself in the shirt.

She was, after all, no doubt uncomfortable with the situation, and, well, this was hardly how he'd imagined this happening either. Besides, she looked so cold, and he wanted her to be dressed just in case someone came in. It was fairly late at night and none of their friends seemed particularly fond of the library, so it was somewhat unlikely, but it was still a possibility. He felt a powerful, possessive surge of something, not wanting anyone _else_ to see her like this. He liked that, just for now, this was all _his_. He also needed her to cover up so that he could have a real conversation with her without being any more distracted by her considerable charms.

There was no way Lizzie could know what she was thinking, so she assumed the worst, as she was prone to expect from him. He was repulsed by her, by what he'd done. That was why he couldn't look at her. She wasn't pretty enough for him anyway, and he probably thought she was crap in bed now, and, ugh, she didn't even want to think about it. She held the shirt to her chest, feeling suddenly very affronted. A few minutes ago he had been all over her, and now he refused to even look at her and was handing her clothes like he was ashamed, like he regretted it already. If she noticed how the feelings she was projecting onto him greatly resembled her own, including the repulsion she was imagining he felt, she didn't acknowledge them. But it made her feel cheap all the same. She shook her head, bringing her jaw forward, straightening further and reaching down for her clothes.

He too shifted into a sitting position. He sensed the growing distance between them but was powerless to stop it, too afraid to reach for her or do anything when he'd so clearly misread the situation earlier. As the seconds ticked by, Lizzie was becoming progressively more horrified and mortified at her own behavior. What he must think of her! He already doubtlessly thought her younger sister was a slut, and now he must be thinking the same of her, that she also had no self-control or standards or... ideals. Lizzie shut her eyes, trying not to cringe; she really _was_ like Lydia, then, wasn't she?

Ordinarily she wouldn't care what Darcy thought of her, or, rather, she would pretend not to care... but she didn't want him thinking she was easy just because she'd slept with him in what was clearly a massive lapse in judgment that she didn't completely understand. She _never_ did things like this. She ran a hand through her hair, turning her back to him as she began to sort through clothes. "I don't usually do things like this," she offered as a means of an explanation, cringing as she said it, wanting to wring her hands as she realized how hackneyed it sounded. A moment later, she'd found her dress and was pulling it down over her head already so she didn't have to face him.

He eyed her bare back, and when she turned, running her fingers through her hair to fix it, his expression was impassive once more. She almost sighed in relief, glad something was the way it had been before she'd been stupid enough to have sex with him. "I don't either," he said coolly with a bit of a shrug, more comfortable naked than he had any right to be. She looked away, biting her lip, momentarily distracted by his nakedness, and threw his shirt at him. Then she turned back to the pile of clothes, attempting to sort through it to find her underwear. She was all too aware of the stickiness between her thighs, of how her body was now sore in new and unexpected places, and, of course, of how colossally stupid this entire decision had been. The worst part, though, was that, try as she might, she couldn't account for _any_ of it.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably, feeling the need to apologize somehow. "I... I don't know what came over me," he said simply, still unable to believe he'd done what he'd been dreaming of more or less since the moment he first laid eyes on her. The way he said it made it sound like a bit of an insult, even though Lizzie heartily agreed with the sentiment. Lizzie's jaw tightened faintly, and had she turned around, she probably would've glared at him. As it was, she merely found his boxers and threw them behind her, not saying a word. Darcy, on the other hand, was in no hurry to get dressed. "I guess I just... got caught up in the moment," he added haltingly, half-reaching for her already.

Lizzie was barely able to stop herself from snorting. It was impossible to imagine William Darcy getting caught up in anything, so he was clearly lying through his teeth. Darcy was only half-lying; he certainly hadn't _intended_ to sleep with her... it was something that had just happened, in a way things never _justhappened_ to him, but he'd known what he was doing. It wasn't as if he hadn't wanted to have sex with her for the majority of their acquaintance, with only circumstances and his own morals preventing him from doing so. He had been the one with the urge to kiss her in the middle of the argument, after all, and everything had gotten out of hand and gone farther than he'd intended. But now that it had happened, he was glad.

Lizzie fastened her bra, tucking it inside of her dress. All of the sudden, the whole situation was just too much for her, and she started shaking with silent laughter. Darcy touched her shoulder, concerned, worried she was crying, and Lizzie turned towards him. That was when he saw she was laughing, and he couldn't help but feel a bit insulted and... hurt. Was he laughable? He stiffened. Unable to believe the surrealness of the situation, Lizzie sputtered, "I can't believe I slept with you in the library. On a couch." There were tinges of hysteria and horror in her voice that didn't entirely escape Darcy's notice. She covered her still-burning face, embarrassed beyond belief.

In a way, Darcy thought that it had to happen here; where else in Netherfield were he and Lizzie's guards both lowered enough for this to happen? Few other places afforded such complete privacy, even including their bedrooms. The library, after all, up until now, had carried with it no romantic notions... despite old Harvard traditions and _Atonement_... which was precisely what made it so very dangerous. He'd certainly never be able to sit in here with the same tranquility, remembering as he did what it was like to have Lizzie Bennet.

The couch was made of an elaborate printed fabric, something floral, and done rather opulently, probably some sort of antique. It was stuffed enough to be suitably comfortable, but it was a couch meant for sitting rather than lounging. Grasping at straws, Darcy decided to follow her lead and try and make light of it. He did want to put her at ease, even though _he_ didn't take this sort of thing lightly (and, given her attitude, he didn't think _she_ did either). "It's a far cry from _Anna Karenina_," he remarked dryly. He was slow to dress, wearing just the boxers and only now starting to button up his shirt with a bit more care than was necessary.

She surprised the both of them by chuckling at the unexpected remark, shaking her head faintly. Her fingers found the couch somewhat distractedly, idly tracing the patterns of the vines. Anything was better than talking about what had just happened. "You know, I always did wonder why she gave up everything, her marriage, her respectability, her child... for that. Tolstoy didn't even describe it. So the sex was either really great or she was crazy in love with the guy," Lizzie mused with a laugh. Giving up everything for some good sex just seemed rather wasteful, especially since Vronsky hadn't seemed like much, but, then, maybe she'd never had sex that good. Although it _had_ been pretty damn good, Lizzie conceded, stealing a glance at Darcy. She twisted some strands of thread that had come loose and pronounced quite decidedly, "Or, as I personally like to think, Anna was an idiot."

Darcy blinked, mildly astonished at this assertion. "I'm surprised that someone as passionate as you would say that," he said unthinkingly. Lizzie turned and gave him a questioning look, shifting so that she was wedged up against one of the arms of the sofa, cross-legged. Her underwear was probably somewhere under the couch, and she could retrieve it later. At her look, he reddened faintly, realizing how she could've taken that. He was too nervous to elaborate further, reaching over her for his pants instead. His shirt was only half-buttoned.

"And what would you know about that?" Lizzie asked archly. Just because she had passion didn't mean that she couldn't reign it in to suit her purposes. He didn't trust himself with words, so he merely tilted his head and gave her a knowing look. Lizzie looked away, feeling her own cheeks redden in response. He had the scratch marks on his back to prove it, not to mention the loud moans that he had undoubtedly memorized, like music to his ears. She ran a hand through her hair, playing with the strands and feeling where it was matted at the base of her head. "Well," she said after a moment's thought, "You're no Vronsky."

Darcy frowned, unable to decide whether that was a compliment or an insult. He still didn't know what she thought of this whole thing; all he knew was that she'd rejected his attempt to kiss her earlier. Lizzie had meant it as a statement of fact; Darcy was nothing like the character, not flaky, superficial, or overly physical, among other things. Nor, for that matter, did he seem particularly passionate, although Lizzie now had firsthand knowledge of the opposite. "What would you sacrifice for l-passion then?" he asked suddenly. He'd been about to say love instead, but he chickened out, wondering what she'd think of him if he accidentally dropped that little word.

"Security," Lizzie said almost instantaneously, as if she didn't even have to think about it. Darcy's eyes widened to the size of saucers. He frowned, uncomprehending, and opened her mouth to ask her why she condemned Anna for making the same decision she herself would, but Lizzie beat him to it. "It isn't a sacrifice if you never settle," she interjected, leaning back against the couch and looking suddenly very regal and uncompromising to Darcy. He wondered if she would ever realize, as he did, how very similar they were in some respects. Oh, yes, he knew all about patience and waiting.

And, despite his general cynicism, Darcy was, at heart, an idealist. He stood to put his pants on, clambering over her with the intent to cause her as little discomfort as possible, which meant not touching her, sadly. He was well aware of her eyes on him. Darcy met and held her stare as he pulled the fabric up his legs until, finding it too much, she tore her gaze away from his. Still, he didn't entirely agree with her point because holding out had its own perils and missed opportunities, little sacrifices she didn't consider. Unlike her, he was cautious by nature, which perhaps made the reality of him acting on his desires even more incredible.

He looked down and saw a scrap of fabric under the couch. Frowning, he bent down and picked it up, nearly dropping it once he realized it was (hopefully) Lizzie's underwear. She flushed at the sight of Darcy holding her underwear and nearly leaped up to snatch it out of his hands, mumbling a thanks and then flopping back down on the couch, hurriedly pulling her panties on before he could see anything more. For his part, Darcy zipped up his pants, redoing the button, and putting his belt back on. He did so with a practiced, unnerving calm he did not feel, all the while trying to straighten out his thoughts.

When this was done, Darcy straightened and cleared his throat. He towered over Lizzie and made quite the imposing figure, though he didn't realize it at the time. Half of Lizzie was in his looming shadow now, but she wasn't afraid, merely uncomfortable. She shifted, feeling antsy, unable to meet Darcy's eyes now that he'd seen her naked. "Well, what are you standing there for?" Lizzie said, eying his legs. Her gaze went no further north than his lower thighs, shortly above his knees. Something about the way he stood there made it seem like he was expecting something from her; she couldn't imagine what he'd possibly want from her now. She crossed her arms over her chest, leaning into the corner of the sofa, trying to make herself smaller.

He'd gotten what he wanted, obviously, so what was he sticking around for? The awkward post-coital conversation? It wasn't like she and Darcy had particularly good, non-awkward conversations when they _hadn't_ just had sex. He wasn't her boyfriend or even someone she was casually dating, so he wasn't remotely obligated to stick around. Darcy tensed at her words, opening his mouth, readying himself to say something, anything. Lizzie's voice cut through the brief silence. "You don't _really_ need me to hold your hand and tell you what a good job you did, do you?" she asked patronizingly, a bit mockingly, as if speaking to a small child, dragging her eyes up to make contact with his unnerving stare. Sometimes Lizzie wondered if Darcy ever blinked; he was always staring at her with such intensity that it must make his eyes burn.

Uncharacteristically, Darcy smirked at the barb. "So I did a good job, then," he proclaimed a bit smugly, though her phrasing had been more ambiguous than that. It was, strangely, the sort of thing George might've said, complete with the boyish grin, and given the way Lizzie's eyes widened, she hadn't expected that. He wanted to know that he'd done more than a good job, that he'd been more than merely tolerable or adequate or good enough. Darcy had always been an overachiever, and he hated being merely average or failing at anything, so this incidental comment was worth more to him than he let on.

Lizzie made a face. If he hadn't been there, she might've mimed her disgusted, on-the-verge-of-throwing-up gesture. As it was, she merely grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him. It hit his chest and bounced off, much to Darcy's amusement. Her face reddened, and she found herself wishing she could bury her face in that pillow which was now unfortunately at Darcy's feet. "I never said that," Lizzie muttered hotly. Darcy bent down a little so that he could give her a look that said exactly what he thought about that, and Lizzie closed her eyes, silently conceding. Darcy was going to hold this over her head forever, and she'd never be able to look at him again because she'd be remembering what he looked like naked and how glorious that had just been. Lizzie took a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling, clasping her hands together.

"Look, I don't know why that just happened," Lizzie said, breaking the silence but still not looking at him. She touched her lips, her fingers lingering a moment before she drew them away. This, of course, led to Darcy staring at her kiss-swollen lips a bit more than was strictly necessary or prudent, but he was particularly proud of this accomplishment. Problematically, however, he found that he wanted to kiss her and touch her again, and he couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever again be allowed the chance. She'd seemed to enjoy it, hadn't she, and she'd sort of said he was good, right? He shifted uncomfortably, licking his lips and wondering how best to bring up the subject.

The woman in question was still trying to wrap her head around everything while Darcy just stood there. He had the fortune of knowing his own feelings; none of this was a surprise to him, so of course he stood there calmly. Her search within herself for an explanation other than some excuse Lydia would buy wasn't getting Lizzie anywhere, and eventually she noticed, out of the corner of her eye, that Darcy wasn't doing anything but staring. He wasn't leaving as he easily could have, and Lizzie didn't know what to make of this either. She lowered her head and really looked at him for the first time since it had happened. "How are you _not_ freaking out about this?" Lizzie demanded incredulously, roughly combing a hand through her hair.

Indeed, Darcy's expression was pleasant, belying none of his underlying worries or concerns, and he appeared to her to merely stand there placidly as if waiting for something. She didn't have anything to give him. He realized a bit too late that she was talking to him and looked up suddenly, tearing his eyes away from her mouth. Darcy shrugged. How could he tell her why he wasn't particularly surprised by this turn of events, how he'd always known that there was something electric between them? How did he put that into words, he who was so bad at speaking generally? "We're both adults here, Lizzie. Obviously we're attracted to each other. Something like this was..." Realizing suddenly how badly that might've come off from Lizzie's stunned expression, he stopped himself short of saying "inevitable," as he'd meant to. Lizzie gaped at him; only Darcy could sound so patronizing and infuriatingly... _something_... after having sex with someone.

After a moment of his silence, Lizzie gave him an expectant look. She wanted him to finish the sentence. She wanted him to say it was a mistake, that it was nice or whatever but that it obviously couldn't happen again, that it was a lapse in judgment, in his stuffy perfection... anything! But Darcy was perhaps wiser or stupider than he realized, and he said nothing, not wanting to dig himself into a hole he hadn't seen coming. Which meant that Lizzie had to be the one to talk. She steeled herself, bending down to reach for the book she'd dropped in distraction when Darcy had come at her. She picked it up gingerly, holding it carefully between two petite fingers, gazing at the faded, yellowing cover with its dim, rust-edged pages.

Darcy's stare relented momentarily, his attention arrested by the book's rather risqué cover. He almost smiled at the title. Lizzie flushed a little, setting the book down on the settee next to her, cover facing down. It had seemed like a good summer book at the time, and Lizzie hadn't read it since she was sixteen and took herself so much more seriously. She'd been looking forward to rediscovering it, but she was anxious to get out of the library. He was probably judging her for it already, but then again she was certain Darcy's idea of "light" summer reading was something like the Gulag Archipelago and thus even more twisted. The mere thought of opening the book back up again now, after what had just happened, to read of men's concupiscent desires, made her feel almost queasy. Lizzie cleared her throat, adjusting her clothes for what seemed like the millionth time since she'd dressed herself earlier. "Why don't we both just go our separate ways," she suggested a bit tremulously, "and pretend this never happened?"

Darcy's thoughts were more agreeably engaged. In fact, he was currently rhapsodizing in a way that might've horrified and amused Lizzie in equal turns. He was barely listening to a word she was saying but staring at her as if he wanted to absorb every inch of her.

Elizabeth, light of my life, love of my loins. E-liz-a-beth: the easy E, the light lih, the sharp, razzledazzle Z, a schwa pause, and then the sweet, girl-next-door-end. She was Elle, just the first letter hovering on the tip of his tongue, in the morning when he imagined her coming downstairs, pajamas and tousled hair. Liz in work clothes, Liz in business. She was Lizzie at school, for everyday, Lizzie B. to distinguish herself. There was only just the one, alone and adrift in a sea of sameness. Legally Elizabeth, but in his arms somehow all of these things combined, all at once, for those few glorious moments. She was so many things, somebody's sister, somebody's daughter, somebody's friend, but she could've been so much more. E. Eliza. Beth. Betsy. Bitsy. Liza. Bette. Betty. Libby. Ellie. Bee. _Elizabeth_...

Speaking of the woman in question, she'd rolled her eyes and snapped her fingers to draw his attention. "I said..." His attention had snapped back to what she was saying, but Lizzie found she didn't want to repeat herself. She inhaled wearily, shaking her head, her hands falling to either side of her thighs. "Look, this was a mi-" Please don't say mistake, Darcy found himself thinking (_hoping_, rather), inadvertently crossing his fingers behind his back though he wasn't a superstitious person. Lizzie trailed off, and Darcy's shoulders relaxed a little. "I..." For once Lizzie faltered for words, even debating an apology. "It's best for everyone's sake if we just forget this ever happened and..." she managed after a while, attempting a smile, "**Never** speak of it again."

It came out in a bit of a hush. He found himself speaking before he could think better of it. "It doesn't have to end with this," he said with a strange urgency in his voice, moving towards her again, already trying to persuade.

Lizzie blinked. That didn't sound ominous or anything. She certainly didn't want to have unfinished business with William Darcy. "What are you trying to say, Darcy?" she asked, brow furrowing in confusion. "Just spit it out already," she urged more abruptly a moment later when no answer seemed forthcoming.

His hands slid into his pockets, and he shifted, distractedly rocking his hips forward in a way that made Lizzie mortifyingly conscious of them. Darcy took a deep breath, preparing himself for what was to come. Someone who knew him well would've correctly been able to see the apprehension visible on his face, but Lizzie didn't yet know him that well. Years of socializing with sets that seized on every weakness, his aunt, and ruthless industry men had given him years of experience in hiding such feelings, but it was a reflex now, a habitual reserve he could no longer control. The tough, zinging skin was merely a rind to pull back to access the sweet, soft, yielding flesh underneath.

He shrugged, hoping everything he was feeling didn't show through on his face. His palms were suddenly very sweaty. "I'm single, and you're single. I don't know many people here, and we're not going to be here forever..." Darcy looked up as he trailed off, absently licking his lips. Lizzie bit the inside of her cheek, trying to pretend she didn't notice how very attractive he was in that moment. "I wouldn't mind if it happened more than once." He tried a bit too hard to be nonchalant about it. George had always told him that he had two settings: extreme subtlety, wherein he retreated into himself and expected others to know how he felt and no one had a clue what he meant, or blunt, artless obviousness.

This was a case of the latter. Lizzie's jaw dropped so far down she nearly disarticulated it. She was silent, gaping, for a good minute and a half. Darcy squirmed a little under her wide-eyed stare, letting his statement hang in the air. He'd put himself out there, and now the ball was in her court. Oh, God, he really hoped she'd say yes and put an end to this agony. Lizzie blinked. "You actually want to..." she began disbelievingly, soon finding herself unable to finish the sentence. "With _me_?!" she added a moment later, still a bit flabbergasted.

He nodded a bit too eagerly. Realizing this upon seeing the look on her face, he nodded one last time, slowly and hopefully significantly, before adopting an impassive mien. He didn't want to get his hopes up, but they were slowly creeping upwards. Darcy cleared his throat, pulling his hands out of his pockets and wiping them on the sides of his pants. "Yes, er, that is the idea..." He fixed his eyes on her, trying and failing to read her expression. He had never wanted to understand someone else so badly in his entire life. But, if she said yes, he just might finally get that opportunity.

Lizzie was soon lost in thought. She found herself considering his offer before she realized what she was doing. This was the last thing she'd been expecting. She certainly hadn't imagined ever having sex with Darcy after the man had opened his mouth, and now she had without any alcohol or a better excuse than it being late, and her being tired, stir-crazy, and sexually frustrated. Did she even want to have sex with him again, much less risk it becoming something more regular?

Lizzie bit her lip. She couldn't have known what this gesture was doing to Darcy, who was attempting to fight the sudden, fierce desire he had to kiss her. He quite obviously hadn't been able to fight it the last time...

Damn, it _had_ been good... and it wasn't like she had any better offers. Why shouldn't she use William Darcy for something, even if it was sex? After all, she had no complaints about his skills on the couch; it was perhaps the one facet of his existence she could not find fault with. A good orgasm didn't come along every day, as Lydia would say with a pointed elbow and a wink. Ugh, was she really using Lydia's reasoning as an argument here?

Had Darcy not been there, directly in front of her, though she wasn't looking at him, Lizzie might've shook her head. **No**. The answer _should_ be no. Period, with no consideration because she didn't need it. That's how simple it was. She didn't just dislike Darcy; she **hated** him. Sleeping with him was wrong. It wasn't the sort of thing she did or wanted to do, and just thinking about it made her feel profoundly ashamed; she would certainly never tell anyone unless she couldn't help it. Lizzie had never slept with someone she didn't care about before. But... it had easily been the best sex of her life, and it had been their first time and on a not-wholly-comfortable couch that was too short for him, so it was only bound to improve further, and just the thought made her whole body tingle.

And then there was the strange fact that she'd had sex with him, and he actually seemed to still want something to do with her, which was quite the novelty... even if it was only for more sex.

The voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like Charlotte pointed out that it was undoubtedly a very baaaad idea, and nothing good could come of her sleeping with a man she actively disliked, didn't particularly trust, and barely respected. Particularly one she didn't understand; she would forever be questioning his motives and his taste. And just when exactly had she gone from "decent enough" to a potential booty-call? Had she sunken even lower in his dubious esteem? Would she be just demeaning herself by sleeping with him, making herself out to be cheap and disposable and not worth more than a call late at night?

Clearly he didn't like her. He was always staring at her with those laser pointer eyes of his as if he disapproved of everything about her, and this had probably only confirmed his worst beliefs about her. But, then, she supposed, it was easier for men to dissociate the face and the voice and the brain from the body of the person they were screwing. But then again, did she not have the right to do the same to him? Turnabout was fair play, after all. After all, she was a modern woman, and did her self-worth really have to be tied to who she chose to sleep with anymore? She had a choice, after all. Besides, bad ideas can be go-ood... as Lydia would say. She made a soft noise and mulled it over for a few more minutes while Darcy fidgeted.

In the end, it was strangely easy for Lizzie to agree to more after she'd slept with him, probably since she knew that she could divorce her dislike of the man from the pleasure she'd taken from him. The thought of having ridiculously hot, great strings-free sex with a man she'd probably never have to see again after this summer was too tempting to pass up. She was on vacation after all; might as well enjoy it. "Okay," she said calmly, resigned to her decision.

Darcy was looking down at the floor, his cheeks reddened in shame and embarrassment. His expression and manner were grave, his hands clasped tightly together in front of his waist. The longer they stood there in silence, the more his thoughts turned to the worst. Maybe she hadn't really enjoyed herself; maybe he'd read her wrong. Making love—ugh, he couldn't believe he'd even _thought_ that prosaic and cliché term, which wasn't even appropriate or suitable for what had just transpired between him and Elizabeth—just because she'd been with him once didn't mean she ever wanted to do it again. He'd made her think he just wanted her for sex... no woman wanted to be thought of that way... oh, the things she must think of him! Not to mention that it could certainly make things very awkward, all things considered, not that it wasn't already. It hadn't been a good offer. She was right to think it over and say no, far wiser than he had been.

He opened his mouth, letting out a resigned sigh. He heard her say something, but he didn't care to listen, already sure it was the "no" he fully deserved and expected to hear. He began to apologize, forcing himself to glance up at her. "You don't have to if you don't-" He stopped his backpedaling upon seeing the amused look on her face, and what she'd said earlier suddenly registered. "Wait, you said _okay_?" He was visibly surprised, his eyes wide with wonder at his good fortune.

Lizzie laughed, and Darcy's entire body relaxed at the sound. Truthfully, though, she was embarrassed. She'd been just as surprised as him that she'd agreed, and she was already having second thoughts, which was a bad sign. She even felt her pale cheeks heating. "Yes, apparently my libido wins out over my common sense," she said dryly, already trying to make light of it. Like going against her principles was somehow less of a big deal if she chuckled and made a joke at her own expense. She tried not to cringe at just how much she sounded like Lydia. This must be what it feels like to be her, Lizzie thought, unsettled by it.

But, like her sister, she was already making excuses. Lizzie shrugged. What the hell. She was on summer vacation, this was just a fling, meaningless sex, and Erica Jong would have something great to say about it, and she wasn't gonna feel guilty about enjoying herself and actually having sex for a change. Nope. When else was she going to have this chance? She licked her lip absently.

Darcy frowned a bit but swallowed hard, suddenly buoyantly happy that he was faced with the prospect of getting to sleep with her more than once. What was there left to say but to settle things? "Um, okay then." He looked a bit daunted now since she'd said yes.

Lizzie almost rolled her eyes at how awkward he was. An equally awkward silence had fallen over them now that it was decided. Darcy still loomed over Lizzie, though both of them seemed more at ease now than they had previously. Lizzie crossed her legs, making a bit of a face at the effort it took to separate her sticky thighs, and then she paled so suddenly that Darcy reached out to her, about to ask if she was ill. Lizzie shook off his presently repulsive attentions, swallowing hard. "We... You... I..." she faltered, and Darcy reached out again to take one of her hands. Whatever she was saying sounded rather promising.

He was right about that, but not in the way he thought. He missed how drawn her face looked suddenly, how wide her eyes were with panic. Lizzie swallowed hard but then forced herself to say it, barely able to believe it herself. "We didn't use protection," she told him, her face grave. Lizzie was trying very hard not to think about what this might mean while simultaneously berating herself for being so stupid. Darcy's expression changed to one that resembled hers, though he was, of course, quite a bit less alarmed.

"So, you're not-" he asked uncomfortably, shuffling his feet. Lizzie stared up at him; had he assumed she was? She'd been on birth control at one point, back when she'd first gone to college and had a more functional sex life. It hadn't agreed with her, messing with her emotions and powers of discernment, and she'd seen no reason to continue, especially when money was tight. She shook her head glumly, and Darcy's expression turned apologetic.

It had all happened so fast, and Darcy wasn't exactly used to things like this happening to him. He hadn't thought of it in the moment, and he felt bad for it. His shoulders slumped a little. "I... I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking." Lizzie snorted, giving him a look that said that was obvious. It only served to make him feel worse. "If you need something, I'll pay," he all but stammered, hoping she knew what he meant. Lizzie's eyes widened, and she looked up at him with an expression of incredulity.

She was a bit lightheaded, really, from the alarm, but she nodded. "Yeah, I think I need a Plan B," she muttered. Darcy nodded uncertainly, all too ready to agree to anything she wanted. Lizzie sighed, running her hands down over the fabric of her skirt. She looked up at him, a bit relieved, deciding it was time to lay out the ground rules. "Okay, so rule one is always use protection," Lizzie announced, hands on her knees. Darcy nodded vigorously, and Lizzie briefly spared a thought to how Darcy would dislike fathering a child out of wedlock (she was, quite frankly, a bit surprised he hadn't called her a golddigger, given the expression he wore when her mother made comments about Netherfield).

Lizzie took his nod as encouragement to continue, though she wondered why legalistic Darcy wasn't taking a more active role in outlining the rules of engagement. "Secondly," she said seriously, "we keep it a secret. If the others find out..." She trailed off, not wanting to have to explain why that would be so awful.

Surprisingly, Darcy finished her sentence, "...It'll ruin everything." He said it grimly, his expression briefly darkening when he thought of how Caroline would take it. She could be very vindictive. He certainly didn't want to have to explain this to Bing or anyone else, and he definitely didn't want to get Lizzie's... colorful family involved. Lizzie nodded, glad he understood. He'd actually expressed her own thoughts on the matter, which was a bit unnerving. Darcy sat down next to her, not too close or too far away, gingerly easing his way back onto the sofa, giving her time to object if she wished to. He attempted to smile, glad she understood why he didn't want this getting out. It wouldn't look very good, let alone reflect well on either of them, as Aunt Catherine would say.

"The last thing we need is any of our friends getting the wrong idea about what this is," Lizzie said, leaning back into the couch and smoothing her hair. Darcy looked over at her, judging the distance and wondering if he would one day be able to do the same. "Thirdly," she continued, turning to him and pointing, "we act the same around each other in public. If one of us starts acting _weird_, that's going to raise undue questions... and neither of us are great liars." She fixed him with a rather severe look. Why was she looking at him that way, as if she thought _he'd_ be the one to betray their little secret? He wasn't the one who was open; he very rarely confided his inner feelings in his friends and family as she did.

"I can do that," Darcy said stiffly, still a bit affronted. He rested in hands in his lap. He was itching to touch her, already counting down the minutes until he could take advantage of their little agreement. Lizzie was staring ahead at the bookshelves, thinking of the points she had to hit in this painful conversation. It was probably the most she'd ever talked about sex with a man, which was kind of alarming.

After a moment of reflection, she added, "And no talking about it in public. No need to tempt fate."

Darcy nodded again; he was beginning to get sick of the repetitive motion. He found himself already edging towards her, bit by bit, irrepressibly drawn in her direction. Lizzie thought of what Lydia had said of similar arrangements. Pretending she was Lydia helped her a lot in this situation and helped distract her from her lack of experience in such things. "Four, no strings or obligations. This is _just_ sex, just two people fulfilling a mutual need because we are the only available options," she said bluntly. Darcy flinched, but Lizzie didn't see it. For her part, she was too busy trying not to wince at how ugly that had made this sound.

She didn't entirely know why she kept talking, much less why she continued on in a voice that hard. Still, she met Darcy's gaze. She knew he had feelings, sure, on some level, but she wasn't trying to be deliberately mean. He was the most impassive and unemotional man she'd ever met, to the point of appearing robotic, after all. He didn't seem particularly romantic or sentimental, and she thought she was saving him the trouble of having to frame it in such stark terms. "It is what it is. We don't have to talk or cuddle or do anything romantic," she assured him. She paused a moment, remembering his almost-hostile taciturnity. "Or talk."

His brows shot up; he'd taken Lizzie early on for an emotional and romantic person, someone not so very matter-of-fact, at least. He said nothing and let his expression be his answer. He didn't exactly intend on following that rule to the letter; after all, he wasn't _that_ unfeeling. He didn't see two people as opinionated and stubborn as him and Lizzie not talking. This last statement had gotten Lizzie thinking. "And, last but not least..." she began, eying where one of Darcy's hands now rested a mere inch from her skirt, less than two inches from her thigh.

Lizzie wanted to snort at the mere idea, but Jane and Charlotte and even Lydia had said some things that occasionally made her doubt Darcy's apathy or antipathy towards her... She very much doubted that she needed to say it, or that Darcy could potentially become fond of her at all, considering what a bad match they were. But she had to say it nonetheless. "No getting attached or... emotionally involved." She glanced up at him, steel in her eyes. She smiled a little, surprised at how very little she felt for him at all; she was in no danger of feeling more for him. "I won't if you won't." She said it a bit too lightly for his tastes, a bit too cheekily and carefree.

Had she known how in danger Darcy was _already_ of breaking that rule even as she was outlining it, or if she'd realized what sleeping with him had really meant, she probably would've left the room entirely, white as a ghost, and gone to stay with the rest of her family at Mary's. As it was, though, she thought it utterly impossible, so she made it a joke.

Darcy's spirits fell a little at this, but he swallowed his doubts and nodded grimly in agreement. He should have been relieved to know that the possibility of a further attachment was off the table, but he hated being denied the option. He wasn't looking for anything serious or messy. He had little use or desire for a girlfriend or significant other. But he'd admired Lizzie for quite some time, and the part of him still crushing had ridiculous pink-champagne-and-roses fantasies. Still, the last statement had given him a little burst of something like hope.

Her question snapped him out of his reverie. "You have any rules?" Darcy thought it over for a minute. It was on the tip of his tongue, his one request: Don't pretend I'm someone else. But he kept it inside because he couldn't say that, not out loud, not without her maybe getting the wrong idea.

He shook his head slowly, and Lizzie relaxed a little. She'd been almost sure Darcy was going to have some ridiculous request of her. However, a moment later, frowning, he had a question for her. "So, what are we? Friends with benefits?" He had to force the words out because he disliked how crude they made this sound.

Lizzie froze momentarily. She'd preferred it when there was no definition and it was uncategorized, unlabeled, so casual it didn't even merit clarification. Naturally, she hadn't expected Darcy, the man, to bring it up. That, however, wasn't what she latched on to. "You think we're _friends_?" Lizzie blurted, her face a picture of surprise. She and Darcy... friends? That was almost more ludicrous than the fact that she'd just agreed to sleep with him on a regular basis. Darcy frowned at her, and Lizzie blinked, realizing she needed to explain. "I thought we were casual acquaintances," she said uncomfortably, shifting away from him.

He gave her a look she otherwise might've found condescending, since he was looking at her like he thought she was slow. To be fair, in that moment, he kind of did; I mean, what else should he call them? True, they didn't know each other very well, and they had very rarely spent any time one-on-one; in fact, Darcy could almost swear this was the _first_ time they'd ever been alone together, but that couldn't have been right! But the point remained that they had slept together, which automatically meant he knew her better than most people and vice-versa. He turned towards her, wondering why he needed to spell it out for her. "Our best friends are dating, and you're living in my house-" he began patiently or a bit impatiently depending on one's perception.

"-_Bing's_ house," Lizzie interrupted, intent on being right, "We're both guests of his hospitality." She gave Darcy a look like she was daring him to contradict her. She was right, and it wasn't worth it to him to continue arguing the point, so he didn't dare.

He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Insufferable woman, and yet he was helpless to her unintentional charms. Darcy did make a face at her, though, not acknowledging what she'd said. He sighed deeply, his brow still furrowed. "But, yes," he admitted finally, "I'd say we're friends." Lizzie wasn't entirely comforted by the thought of this new friendship, but she couldn't very well tell him they weren't friends. Besides, however unfortunate it was, she needed some term she could call this in her head that didn't make her feel sick or like she was the biggest whore in the world. And "friends with benefits" was the only term she could think of aside from even vaguer terms like "thing" or "arrangement" that would allow her to keep her dignity.

Darcy cleared his throat, snapping Lizzie out of her thoughts. "So, how's this going to work?" he asked weightily, leaning forward, rubbing his palms on his thighs. Lizzie bit her lip; that was quite a question.

Lizzie shook her head, thinking for a moment. "Well..." She leaned over, slowly bridging the divide between them. Darcy could only watch. Why was he barely breathing? She reached her hand into his pocket, abruptly pulling out his phone, extricating her hand. Darcy jolted, on edge and somewhat disappointed, but Lizzie was blissfully ignorant to it. She looked at his phone, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. A Blackberry, of course. It was locked, so she couldn't open it. Since Darcy was still gaping at her like some kind of hungry crustacean, Lizzie sighed and handed him back his phone.

He stared at it dumbly. Lizzie really didn't want to talk about it, but his obtuseness was frustrating him immensely. "First, I give you my phone number," she said slowly, trying to camouflage her impatience. Darcy stared at her blankly in response. His jaw was a little slack because he couldn't actually believe she was just going to give him her phone number unprompted. It was, he realized with a jolt, a way of contacting and seeing Lizzie that didn't completely rely on their mutual acquaintances or coincidence. Lizzie forced a smile. She thought many bad things about Darcy, but she would've never taken him to be slow. "And now's when you unlock your phone so I can do that," she continued coaxingly.

Darcy quickly looked down in embarrassment and unlocked his phone with a single sweep of his finger, quickly handing it to her. Their fingers brushed, and he felt some horribly cliché feeling welling up in his throat. Lizzie accepted the phone disinterestedly, handing him her already unlocked iPhone. He stared at the contacts screen, feeling flushed like a little boy with a crush. It felt unreal, him putting his number into her phone. His larger, distracted fingers were clumsier than hers, so she'd finished sooner. However, something occurred to her as her finger hovered over the name slot; she couldn't put her name in. In fact, if they wanted no one to catch on, the texts had to come from someone else entirely. Yes, it was just a precaution, but Lydia liked to mess with her phone, and sometimes Jane would pick up, and Lizzie didn't want anyone asking too many questions about who she was been texting.

She glanced over at Darcy. As if on cue, his eyes snapped up to meet hers. "It shouldn't be under our real names. It needs to be a codename that won't interest anyone." Darcy considered her reasoning and slowly nodded. What she said had made perfect sense, so why did he feel suddenly disappointed? He frowned a little as he was deleting letters one by one. He'd debated using Darcy, what she called him and knew him as, but that had seemed a bit obvious. He'd noticed she didn't have any Williams in her contacts, so, smiling a little, he'd entered his first name.

Lizzie, meanwhile, was wracking her brain to think of an appropriate name. It came to her after a minute. "Emma. Emma Woodhouse," she announced. Emma Woodhouse was a friend of Lizzie's. They'd met one summer when they were both undergraduates at some kind of creative writing retreat/workshop at a really nice cabin in the woods. Emma had been there on a lark because a friend had applied for her since he thought she needed something better to do in the summer than "merely matchmake your friends and distant acquaintances to everyone's detriment." Emma was the kind of girl who was effortlessly good at everything she attempted, but she lacked specific focus or interest in one field, so she just as easily discarded hobbies as picked them up. She'd been a poetess that summer. She was also the kind of girl who always got her way.

Lizzie and Emma still kept in touch and talked fairly often, mostly through Facebook and email, sometimes, rarely, Skype. She didn't actually have Emma's number, but her sisters and Charlotte didn't know that. Besides, Lizzie rather thought that Emma would find it terribly amusing that Lizzie was using her name to arrange booty-calls. Emma would, in fact, probably twist the whole thing into something far more romantic than it really was, and, Heavens, she'd probably try to match her up with Darcy! She made a face at the mere thought, remembering Emma's attempts to push her towards more than a few pretentious and talentless poets.

That summer was when Lizzie had first learned of the power of poetry in driving away love.

Darcy turned to stare at her, perplexed. She gave him a look, motioning to the phone. "That's the name you're going to use." Darcy made a face, but he sighed and acquiesced at Lizzie's stern look. At least he wouldn't have to delete the W. "What name do you want me to use?" she asked briskly.

He'd just finished typing the name she'd told him, wondering if there was a story behind it or if she'd merely made it up. He looked up, however, at the sound of her voice, her words a dim echo in his head. He ran through his mental Rolodex before coming up with a suitable option. "Knightley Cell," he told her, still holding her phone tightly.

Lizzie's brows rose. "How do you spell that?"

Darcy sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Like Keira Knightley," he elaborated.

Lizzie snorted. She was surprised someone who disdained Hollywood movies as much as he did knew the name. "Well, why didn't you just type in _her_ name, then?" She found it odd that they had both used names of people of the same sex as themselves. In her case it made sense since she'd get massive questions about any man even in her general vicinity thanks to her well-known perpetual singledom... But Darcy, well, shouldn't he have a girl in the wings or greater ease at making something up? After all, his social awkwardness wasn't enough to make _all_ women run in the opposite direction; he worked a lot, wasn't funny, and was generally rude and unpleasant... but he was also handsome, rich, and had some sort of magnetism going on for him... and women loved jerks. Darcy gave her a look, and Lizzie held up her hands in a surrendering gesture and started to type it. He thought he heard her mutter something under her breath, but he couldn't hear it distinctly.

As she typed, he spared a thought on George Knightley, who would doubtlessly have some very choice words for him on this subject. George was actually in his phone already, under George Cell (because what other George would he have in his phone?). They'd gone to college together and had been fairly good friends, even though George was a few years older than him, due to their similar senses of humor and duty. Like himself, George had a habit of being called by his last name, though in George's case it was because he hated his first name and a female friend of his from childhood had decided quite long ago that his last name made him sound "far more dashing." It was amusing how someone as aware as Knightley could be so oblivious to his own heart; Darcy had never met the girl, some Emily Woodley or Wodehouse or something, but Knightley's obvious fondness and feelings for her were clear from the way he'd spoken about her.

The two men had met up again a few years later in business school, and the two presently did a fair amount of business, hence why he had George's cell and office numbers. Knightley particularly liked to give his friend advice on life because he was older and a sociable, affable sort, which even Darcy himself could acknowledge he was not. Sometimes his big-brotherly advice was helpful. He would certainly have some very interesting things to say about the wisdom of what Darcy was entering into, and whether or not it was fair to either party. He would say it wasn't like him, that he wasn't that sort of man even as Darcy protested that he didn't care. Knightley was a bit nicer than Darcy himself, so he wouldn't just write it off as a rebellious phase. He would also probably have something clever to say about the danger of thinking he was so certain about his own feelings, and Knightley was right more often than Darcy wished to acknowledge. Furthermore, Knightley hated secrets, so he was biased in his own way from the start as only someone truly open could be.

"We have to talk in code too," Lizzie informed him. This much, at least, was obvious. She reached over, fingers brushing his for a small moment that stretched on like an eternity as she grabbed her phone back, not without a little force. Her touch felt like a sliver of warm sunshine dancing across his skin. She tipped his phone into his lap distractedly. "If you want..." she trailed off, biting down hard on her bottom lip and trying not to cringe as she attempted to put it into words. "Ask me about reading."

Darcy nodded, smiling a little that she'd thought up such a brilliant code. However, it would seem weird for Knightley to constantly be commenting on his reading habits, so he figured he ought to give her a code of her own, even if it would mean that their conversations might seem to make very little sense. "When you're texting me... something about filing or work." Lizzie thought it over and then nodded. Darcy picked up his phone, instantly memorizing the number.

She tapped her phone distractedly. It was very important that she lay out all the details clearly so that there was no misunderstanding. After all, clearly they already misunderstood each other a lot. "We can call this off, either one of us, whenever," she offered, smiling shyly. Darcy's face fell a little, but he nodded and was able to school his expression into something suitably impassive before she noticed. It would hardly be the last time he questioned just what he'd gotten himself into here with her. "One of us texts the other one to... set something up," Lizzie began, shifting, crossing and uncrossing her legs. "Neither one of us has to do anything we don't want... if... one of us isn't in the mood or something," she explained hastily, uncertainty written all over her face.

Darcy nodded to this, agreeing and muttering something noncommittal but probably assenting. "Anything you want to add?" Lizzie asked after a moment, turning to face him more fully. He noticed the distance between their thighs on the couch narrow some. He thought for a long moment in silence but could come up with nothing but his sudden, paralyzing fear that this was how it started, falling... Lizzie watched him a bit anxiously, almost starting when he turned to face her. Their knees touched, and she almost flushed at the memories of the skin underneath and how comfortable she would be getting with Darcy's nakedness in the coming days.

As usual, his expression was sober, though not perhaps as devoid of warmth as Lizzie perceived it to be. They sat there, knees touching, in one of the most silent and awkward moments of Lizzie's life. In some ways it was even worse than that moment after she'd slept with him, sweat rapidly cooling on her body, her heart slowing down so that she no longer heard two heartbeats in tandem in her ears, all of her sense flooding back to her in one slowly horrifying moment.

He wanted desperately to say something, but nothing would come to mind. He had difficulties expressing himself on the best of days, and it was even worse when it really counted. Lizzie made some expression approximating an awkward, close-mouthed smile and gradually stood up. "Well, then... I should, uh, probably go to my room now," she mumbled, gesturing with her thumb towards the door. She shifted her weight, sliding towards the edge of the couch, feeling for her book blindly with her fingertips until she found purchase. Something flickered in Darcy's eyes, and he rose to his feet before she could, holding a hand out to her. Lizzie stared at it uncertainly for a moment before taking it, letting him pull her to her feet.

It wound up becoming a sort of handshake, which Lizzie took as a symbol of their agreement becoming, er... binding? Darcy held onto her hand just a bit too long, though, and Lizzie had to clear her throat, give him a pointed look, and then finally pull her hand free. Darcy looked down, a bit chagrined. He saw a flash of color out of the corner of his eye, a familiar burst of raspberry red wrapped around one of the couch's feet. He brushed past her, bending down to pick up the sweater. Lizzie frowned for a second but the expression fell off her face when Darcy bent over. She allowed herself a moment to admire his ass. With an ass like that, it really was a shame he was so unpleasant.

Incidentally, while grabbing her sweater, Darcy noticed a small red button standing out against the bright green carpet. He picked up the button, frowning when he noticed it had come from the sweater. It had flown off in his haste to undress her. He straightened, turning back to face Lizzie, who had a few seconds to raise her gaze so as to not be caught staring at his ass. He headed back over to her, carefully handing her the sweater she'd completely forgotten about. A second later, he was taking her hand. Lizzie's brow furrowed momentarily; why was he holding her hand? He pressed the button into her hand, smiling apologetically, and Lizzie had her answer. "Uh, sorry about that," Darcy said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Lizzie stared at the button, starting to shrug her sweater back on. "Thanks," she replied, momentarily meeting his gaze. He held her stare as she slid into the other arm. "It's not a big deal," she said, brushing it off. "I'll make up something and get Jane to fix it." They stared at each other for an interminable moment, and then Lizzie moved to leave. At that very moment, Darcy also moved to leave, and they wound up face to face once again. Both of them laughed nervously and headed in the opposite direction of the first time, causing them to run into each other yet another time. By that point, it was just awkward.

They stared at each other once more, neither of them moving, and then it was as if they were drawn together. They inadvertently moved closer, and next thing both of them knew, they were kissing again. It was impossible to say who made the first move. After a few moments, Darcy had somehow backed Lizzie up against one of the bookshelves and was once again pushing her sweater off, his mouth hot on her neck. The book and button fell to the floor, forgotten, as Lizzie pulled his shirt out from his pants, her hands gliding across his back.

Neither of them emerged from the library for several hours, and when they did, they left with distracted, satisfied smiles and no books. When the maid came to clean the next day, she wondered why there were two books on the floor, seemingly flung on opposite sides of the room, as if something about Vladimir Nabokov particularly offended someone, but she was wise enough not to ask or dwell on it.

- Loren ;*

I should also add that this story starts a little more than a week into the Netherfield arc, though admittedly time's not my strongest point... and it continues at least until Bing leaves (is that a spoiler?). I would've said that at the beginning, but I didn't want to spoil anything.


	2. In the Middle

Happy Thanksgiving! So here is the REAL chapter two. Consider it a belated birthday present to you. This takes place roughly on the evening of Wednesday, July 17. The reason why I have a specific date for this will be obvious later on. I don't at the present moment remember which episode this takes place before, but it should be pretty obvious... I think it happens before 29 or 30? This chapter's a bit more of a mix than I was expecting and became somewhat angsty towards the end... but, then, I guess there's a reason why I made it angst in the genre. It was supposed to be a bit lighter, though, as you can hopefully see. I also wanted to explore a bit of backstory on Darcy and just what Lizzie might be feeling at Netherfield, so she's a bit less trusting/frustrated with Caroline for being kind of pushy. Which I think is a natural thing to feel. Also, approximately half of this chapter was written after seeing Darcy, so I apologize if the characterization is a bit off.

Also, Darcy's appearance has spawned all these beautiful fics, and I am loving it. You should read them. It also goes without saying that I don't own the LBD. Or else, hello, sexier times.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter and my story, and reviews are highly appreciated, as always.

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Lizzie was staring out one of the bay windows in Netherfield's lounge down at the lawn below. It stretched before her, bright emerald green dotted with bright flowers, well-trimmed and maintained, seemingly endless. Netherfield had the best gardens in the county; it accordingly also had the highest landscaping bills in the county, although Lizzie could never remember having seen more than one gardener in the weeks she'd been living here. The green was broken up by a few rather dramatic fountains, a patio, and the marvelous pool just out of sight.

Lizzie suppressed a sigh; she loved her home as much as anyone, but it would be nice to live somewhere like Netherfield... if she ever had the money for it (not that she ever would). But maybe that was the just the little girl who'd wanted her life to be like a period romance talking, still searching for some ancient estate like Chatsworth or Haddon Hall to call home. Although, she mused, contemplating the view, she wouldn't want something quite so gloomy and dramatic as a manor in Derbyshire with a ridiculous name like Thornfield or Wuthering Heights, even if she could choose. She'd want something with a softer, lighter name, something almost musical, something just on the tip of her tongue and just out of her reach.

Darcy, who had been studying her instead of his computer screen for the past few minutes, wanting desperately to talk to her but attempting to suppress the urge by nibbling on his bottom lip, came up behind her. Fighting the urge had made his whole body restless, and he'd shifted again and again in his chair, his leg jiggling faintly, until he could take it no longer. It wasn't like him to fidget. He moved toward the window, ostensibly to watch the sunset. A shadow fell over Lizzie, but she didn't look away from the horizon. Darcy's reflection could've been seen in the glass, had she cared to lean her head back a few inches, focusing on the glass rather than the vista below. But she didn't. Still, she could feel the heat of another body behind her, and the hairs on the back of her neck had pricked in anticipation of a hot breath there.

He put his hand on her shoulder gently, half-turning her towards him. He moved forward slowly so that his body lightly brushed against hers. His presence was reassuring and solid, rather like that of a wall. Also, like that of a wall, it was the kind of support one took for granted, and Lizzie didn't have very strong feelings about it one way or the other. She tensed, eyes flashing in irritation. "What are you doing?" she hissed, clutching at her necklace, idly rubbing her collarbone. She was well-aware that they were not alone in the room and was accordingly wary of attracting any of Darcy's more _public_ attentions. Bing might be preoccupied, but Caroline's month-old fashion and celebrity magazines were not that interesting.

"I want to _see_ you," Darcy whispered directly into her ear. His voice was suitably low and husky, decidedly romantic. Lizzie tensed further as his breath tickled her neck, feeling a familiar and traitorous pull of arousal. She shuddered involuntarily. Had she looked into the glass the right way, she would've seen a quietly pleased smile spreading slowly across Darcy's face. Had she seen that expression, she probably would've accidentally-on-purpose elbowed him and then ignored his texts and locked her door later that night. Maybe. "Tonight," he added a moment later, a bit desperately, rocking forward onto his toes. For a moment, he pressed his body against hers, and Lizzie froze entirely.

She tried to keep her breathing steady. He should _not_ be having this effect on her; clearer heads ought to prevail, she thought, shaking her head. "Okay... you could've just texted," she mumbled back. Like a normal person, she thought but did not say, turning her head away as best as she could while still facing the window and rolling her eyes. It came out more casually than she felt it. Her white-knuckled hands clutched the skirt of her dress tightly, wrinkling the fabric.

Darcy reached out, his fingers just skimming the side of her skirt, fingertips fluttering across the soft fabric. His hands weren't especially close to hers, not by a long shot, but they were close enough that he could've reached for her hands, grabbing them and gently prying them from the fabric, if he'd dared. "Why the need to ask _in__public_?" Lizzie muttered, none-too-pleased, turning back to look at him briefly. She would've looked past him rather pointedly, but she didn't want to risk attracting anyone else's attention if they hadn't already done so. Darcy dropped his hand a bit dejectedly.

Darcy bit the inside of his cheek hard, trying to think up an explanation for why he needed to ask this of her publicly, despite their rules and his own knowledge that this was probably a bad idea. Indeed, how could he explain how infuriatingly frustrating it was to not be able to touch her now, when they were living under the same roof? He swallowed hard; his saliva felt thick. He'd never had the gift of conversing freely, and even when he tried, his words often came out sounding stilted and overly formal, try as he might to be likable and easy of manner. It was his own little defense mechanism; using formal speech to make those who treated him with condescension talk to him like an adult, and using big words to insult and stupefy the sort of rough boys who'd dared to pick on bookish, quiet, shy William (never Will) in grade school before he'd hit his growth spurt.

He clenched his fists at his side. How many chances like this would he get? He couldn't tell her the truth: that he'd seen her here and had had a sudden urge to come up behind her and brush her hair aside, away from her shoulder, and kiss the bare crook of her neck and the slope of her shoulder. He'd seen the way the late afternoon sun hit her pale skin, something of the reflection of the upcoming sunset on her skin, suffusing her in a light pink and gold glow. He'd briefly caught her eye, and the sea-green color of them had shut off all coherent thoughts. There was only the desire to be next to her and see her sparkle up close; he could only admire her from afar for so long.

Truthfully, he wanted to do other things like press her up against that glass and... He closed his eyes, distracted, attempting to clear his thoughts. "I like to plan ahead... and we were interrupted the last time," he said after a while. He stared at her back, his eyes tracking the curve of her spine and the gentle inclines of her fragile shoulder blades. He was doing his best to resist the urges, to not make the fantasies swimming before his eyes a reality, no matter how much he wanted to.

"You're the one who knows all the secret hiding-spots," Lizzie replied out of the corner of her mouth, eyes briefly flicking up to him. Her eyes burned like cigarettes, and there was something about the briefness of her stare that challenged him. She released her skirt, smoothing it and crossing her arms primly over her chest as Darcy thought. Bing had given him a tour, and everything else about the house Darcy had found out via trial and error or from reading websites. The house was a famous local landmark, after all, having once belonged to some sort of heir and then a few actors and actresses.

He debated several places, including Lizzie's room (Jane or Caroline would easily walk in, trying to get in some girltime), the library (good memories but he didn't want to have Lizzie's attention torn between him and the books), the stairwell outside of his room... before it came to him. "The sunroom on the top floor," he pronounced finally. Said sunroom had the advantage of being forgotten by the Lee siblings, if indeed either had ever known of it. The room had once been an old greenhouse or something like it, maybe an observatory, and was made of glass panes that kept the light and heat in. It was on the very top of the house, rather like a tower, looking over the whole property, and it had at least two points of egress where the two narrow staircases to the attic attached to the catwalk. It even had a little terrace around it that led to the roof proper. The stairway up to it was a spiral staircase hidden behind a nondescript door that Darcy had only noticed because he had the patience and boredom to uncover it in his quest to escape Caroline's notice.

Lizzie tilted her head upwards to look at him, frowning a little and squinting in the sunlight. She brought a hand up to shield her eyes, and for some reason Darcy found it all strangely endearing. "Meet me in the attic," he whispered, by means of an explanation. Lizzie nodded once, slowly, and then lowered her hand and looked away. Darcy stared down into her eyes dreamily, but Lizzie's gaze was far beyond him. Him she'd barely even noticed.

He frowned a little, wanting to steal a bit of her attention again, and leaned in to say something else to her, but Caroline's hostilely chirpy voice cut in loudly before he could get a word out. "So, what are you two talking about?" Lizzie's eyes widened, briefly meeting his for a second as she whirled around, looking a little off-balance. Darcy briefly looked like a deer in headlights, eyes wide like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't.

Darcy briefly closed his eyes like the long-suffering man he was and tried not to cringe. Somehow (he didn't know _how_ she managed it), Lizzie maintained her cool, faking a smile. Darcy and Caroline were both breathing down her neck, and it was kind of pissing her off, to be honest. God, she just knew Caroline was going to say something as soon as they were alone, fishing for some little scrap of information like it was _her_ job to say all the nasty things about Darcy that Caroline barely even dared to think. She still found it hard to get a read on Caroline, let alone Caroline and Darcy's supposed friendship.

Nonetheless, after a lifetime of dealing with her mother, Lizzie was able to go on, looking as if she was more or less unaffected. "Oh, nothing much, Caroline. Just talking about the landscape. Darcy asked which direction the beach was, and I was showing him," Lizzie said sweetly without even blinking, motioning to the view beyond them.

Caroline's brows shot up in surprise, and Darcy stiffened, waiting for the inevitable remark. Lizzie had picked a good topic; there were surely fewer things Caroline was more disinterested in than natural beauty. "Really?" Caroline trilled, disbelief heavy in her tone. Only he heard the subtle undertones of mockery and smugness. "Darcy _hates_ the beach," Caroline said with a superior smile. His cheeks reddened faintly; he did hate the beach. He didn't hate the waves, per se, or even the concept. No, what Darcy hated was the kinds of people who were at the beach, the fact that sand got everywhere every time he went, and the other fact that beaches were breeding grounds for germs and disease. She could've gone on then about how he preferred pools and chlorine and a thousand other things, but Lizzie's reaction stopped her.

Lizzie looked over at him, her lips curving upwards. She did not look put out or anything she was sure Caroline had intended to make her feel, not even surprised. She just shrugged, smiling enigmatically. "Well, of course he'd want to know where the beach was. How can you properly avoid something if you don't know where it is?" she said with a little laugh. Darcy's lips turned up at the corners in silent amusement; he could sense Caroline quietly fuming behind her perfect, polished mask. Lizzie reached for him then, almost as if she were going to put her hand on his arm or knock him in the side, but she stopped herself short, realizing it would seem overfamiliar in the circumstances. "He might actually get _tan_, Caroline," Lizzie said as if scandalized.

The corners of his mouth edged further upwards. It was somehow more amusing that she was saying these things in front of Caroline, even if she was subtly mocking him. He knocked against her arm lightly, giving her a mock serious look. "Says the woman with the same complexion as milk," Darcy retorted, silently admiring her freckles. Lizzie snorted, turning to look at him.

Was Darcy actually joking with her? She gazed at him for a moment with a questioning look on her face. Darcy smirked. He'd said it a bit more fondly than Lizzie had thought, a bit more like a compliment, but the only reason she didn't take it for an insult was because Darcy was too well-bred to publicly insult her to her face. "Unlike you," she countered, eying his slightly less pale forearms, which were uncharacteristically bared, "I do actually go out in the sun. I just turn lobster red unless I'm wearing 80 SPF sunblock." Sometimes, in fact, she went outside just to get away from Darcy and the house and everyone in it. She could pass hours that way, reading under the trees in the dappled sunlight.

Caroline had been looking between them as if watching a tennis match, her frown growing with each volley. Eventually, when it looked as if Darcy was going to reply to that comment, color and animation rising in his face, she grabbed Lizzie's arm and pulled her aside. She flashed Darcy a mock-apologetic smile and flounced over to the couch halfway across the room with a somewhat flummoxed Lizzie in tow. Lizzie didn't cast a second glance back at Darcy, but he hadn't stopped looking at her. Caroline noticed this, her eyes darting between the two of them as before. "What was up with that, Lizzie? Is there something going on between you and Darcy?" Caroline hissed, pulling Lizzie close.

Lizzie's brows shot up. She immediately began squirming to get away from the other woman. Caroline sounded way too interested in this, a conversation with Darcy that could barely be called such and had almost degenerated into the predictable insults. Apparently Lizzie's incredulous facial expression hadn't sufficed, since Caroline gave her a nonplussed, unimpressed look. "You were standing _way_ too close to him!" she insisted, nudging Lizzie in the side.

Lizzie was well aware of this but wondered at Caroline's concern. She was doing her best to keep her emotions, mostly the guilt and shame, from showing through on her face. Lizzie was, of course, inwardly panicking, hoping against hope that her cheeks hadn't reddened at the mere suggestion. She crossed her arms over her chest and sighed dramatically. "Correction, _he_ was standing way too close to me because he has no respect for personal space," Lizzie said primly, cocking her head to give Caroline a look. Caroline stifled a smile that melted away soon after.

Caroline didn't look wholly convinced; in fact, she didn't even look remotely convinced. Lizzie shifted on the couch a little, feeling Darcy's eyes on her and needing to get more comfortable or into a better, more strong position. Now aware of Caroline's gaze, she felt she could not look at him, even if she wanted to, without it being taken the wrong way. "Come on, Caroline, me and... Darcy?" she asked, raising her brows, the disdain plain in her voice. "Are you _nuts_?!" She glanced over at him briefly, a bit too briefly, her gaze dismissive and somewhat incredulous.

Caroline frowned; Darcy openly stood up a little straighter under Lizzie's stare, no matter how brief. Having looked away quickly, Lizzie didn't even notice the way Darcy's expression changed. Seeing that Caroline remained unconvinced, Lizzie faltered a little. "You know better than anyone else that I hate the guy, and I hate him even _more_ now that we're under the same roof," Lizzie said, leaning in towards Caroline and relaxing into the couch. Her tone was a bit too casual, a bit too blasé. "Darcy doesn't drive me crazy in a Britney Spears kind of way. He drives me crazy in an I-want-to-punch-him-in-the-face-so-that-I-don't-explode-from-rage kind of way," Lizzie explained in a hushed, somewhat restrained voice, her pace a bit brisk. It wasn't untrue, not really. Caroline had to lean in a bit to hear her properly.

The phrase "he drives me crazy" was, naturally, the only one to filter its way over to Darcy, who was trying very hard to pretend that he wasn't straining his ears, attempting to hear every word. He'd since decided that staring at Lizzie was a bit too obvious, even though his eyes helplessly followed her whenever she entered a room, only diverted when someone else directly addressed him. He scowled and turned stiffly to stare out the window, admiring the view, which made him miss home. He wondered idly if Lizzie would like his house before he realized what he was thinking. His eyes widened, but now that he'd thought it, he could not erase the image of Lizzie standing on his doorstep or admiring the view of the grounds from his porch. He also couldn't help but think that the sunset was so much more charming with her there to share it with.

Caroline's expression eased cautiously, wary of what Lizzie was telling her. "What were you really talking about?" she insisted, giving the other woman a challenging look. It was the kind of look she normally used to entreat Lizzie to tell her secrets, but Lizzie wasn't falling for it this time. Why did Caroline seem to care so much? Even her mother, habitually nosy about all of her dealings with men (because every man was a potential suitor, apparently), knew when to leave her alone.

Lizzie gave her a very not-amused look, but Caroline continued not to get the message and instead leaned forward with an eager, conspiratorial look on her face. She could play along for the camera on her vlogs and give Caroline and her other viewers what they wanted, and she was a little too happy to do so, probably. However, the Lizzie she was on the vlogs was becoming increasingly different from who she was in real life on a daily basis. Her sisters and viewing audience perhaps underestimated Lizzie's acting capabilities and her ability to pretend to be something she was not, to become someone else, a caricature of herself, even.

She was silent for a long moment, her lips in a thin line. Caroline's wordless enthusiasm did not flag, even for a moment, and it tired Lizzie. She was tired of lying and feeling like she had to put on some kind of show to entertain the modern-day aristocrats here just to earn her keep. She had to conceal her hatred of Darcy for social cohesion and so that she could tolerate him when she had enough blood in her head to examine what she was doing. She had to stifle her misgivings about Caroline and censor her own vlog now of anything but Darcy criticism because she was a guest in the other woman's home. And she had to pretend like she was happy here when... she felt ill at ease at best, uncomfortable and out of place at worst, and overwhelmed in the rare moments she had to herself. She didn't belong in this world of mansions and polite drawing room small talk.

Lizzie then sighed dramatically, her eyes briefly flicking over to Darcy, lips curving upwards into a smile he properly understood as mischievous. He wasn't supposed to understand this, but Lizzie had underestimated how much knowledge his constant scrutiny had imparted. "Well, if you must know, My _Dear_ Mister Darcy," Lizzie began ironically in her mother's Southern twang, "was just in the middle of confessing his undying eternal love for me." Caroline's eyes widened comically, and Lizzie suppressed her amusement. She wasn't worried about Darcy hearing because he was all the way across the room. Besides, the day William Darcy confessed his undying love for her was the day her mother stopped wanting her to get married! Even the thought was ridiculous.

Since Caroline strangely hadn't contradicted this immediately, Lizzie continued on in an extremely dry voice that was positively dripping sarcasm. She was still speaking in her mother's Southern drawl, which really should've tipped the other woman off, but Caroline seemed frozen (she was, in _horror_). "Since he was working his way up to a big, dramatic proposal, I figured I'd steal his thunder and save him some trouble by just saying it yes and getting it over with already so that we can start a big Darcy family!" Her gestures were becoming a bit more animated because she couldn't resist being a bit over the top while doing an approximation of her mother, who was, after all, where she'd gotten her flair for dramatics from.

Had he heard this, Darcy would've likely been more amused than he could remember being in years and somewhat anxious that she actually thought these things. He was envious of anyone with the ability to shut Caroline down so easily; he largely had to achieve this through more passive-aggressive means, such as ignoring her. As it was, though, he caught a fragment of that last sentence and did a doubletake, glad he was facing the window and not the women so that it couldn't be observed. Clearly he'd misheard, but he turned the fragments over and over in his head, trying to process it and piece them together. He schooled his face into that expressionless look he was famous for and pretended he was paying attention to Netherfield's grounds in the growing darkness.

Caroline's eyes were wide. She didn't yet know Lizzie well enough to tell if she was serious or joking, though not from lack of trying. Lizzie's insane grin, copied from her mother and Lydia in their scheming moods, widened in amusement. She feigned a contemplative look, stroking her chin. "I want about five, all girls, of course, and I really want to start popping them out right away so I can spend the rest of my life having panic attacks about who they're going to marry..." Lizzie continued, leaning in towards Caroline almost conspiratorially. She pursed her lips, amused at Caroline's clearly mounting horror but trying to keep up the act.

"Anyway, I think I'm going to name the first one Darcy, after her father," she drawled airily, casting a deliberate glance over at Darcy, ensuring that it lingered almost as long as one of his infamous dark stares. Darcy met her stare, sensing that she was talking about him. He'd read his name on her lips, and he wondered if she wanted him as badly as he wanted her in that moment. For her part, Caroline merely stared, almost choking on her own saliva; her blood literally ran cold. Lizzie clasped her hands together, fighting the urge to roll her eyes, and entreated Caroline in an almost pleading tone, "and I was wondering if you'd do us the honor of being her godmother?" She batted her eyelashes as if to punctuate the statement.

Lizzie wasn't thinking at all about how Darcy would respond if he heard this exchange; to be honest, she didn't particularly care since there was certainly no danger in him thinking she meant any of that. Truthfully, she couldn't entirely comprehend Caroline's reaction either; the mere fact that she'd suggested she would name a hypothetical child Darcy Darcy in her mother's accent should've been more than enough to make Caroline (or anyone, really) realize she was just messing with her.

Instead, however, Caroline gaped at Lizzie, her jaw hanging open in a most unladylike way. It was incomprehensible to her; she thought she'd been getting somewhere with the other woman, and now to hear this? Every feeling revolted. Oh, she knew Darcy had feelings, and that it was only a matter of time and his own habitual reserve preventing him from expressing them, but to think that she could've underestimated Lizzie's... well, she evidently hadn't yet tried hard enough to separate them! Of the other things Lizzie was saying, things about marriage and babies and godmothers... that was too horrifying to even contemplate. These things did not even feature in Caroline Lee's darkest nightmares, but to have Lizzie Bennet bandy them about so casually as if they were real possibilities, that was a thousand times worse still! Not for the first time, she contemplated letting Darcy know about Lizzie's vlogs, calculating if the sheer force of the dislike and the magnitude of her hatred reflected would be enough to counteract the more positive feelings.

Caroline didn't at all look like the graceful, unflappable woman she thought she knew, and Lizzie wondered what became of that Caroline's poise. She wasn't sure if she should be more insulted by the fact that the other woman actually thought she would name her child Darcy Darcy or that Caroline thought the entire scenario she'd related—her marrying _Darcy_, no less—was actually that plausible. Amused and feeling buoyant and energetic despite Caroline's strange inability to utter a single word, Lizzie twisted so that her front was pressed up against the arm of the couch. Smirking to herself, she turned and winked at Darcy in lieu of any actual words. This did not escape Caroline's notice.

She was on the verge of hysterical laughter, so she turned away before she could see Darcy's no doubt incredulous response. His head had shot up when she'd turned to look at him, their eyes meeting for a brief moment. He'd seen the mirth and mischief there but didn't understand its source, though he wondered if she knew how much it became her. He'd watched, wordless, as she winked at him and then turned back to Caroline, grinning to herself. While Darcy didn't entirely know what that meant, he expected to get an answer later on when they could be properly alone.

It was hard for Lizzie to keep up the sober facade, but she eventually found it in her to pity the still-speechless Caroline, who looked a bit paler than usual. She reached over to pat Caroline on the knee. "Really, Caroline, I was just messing with you," she said in her normal voice with a far more conciliatory tone, though she was still barely able to suppress her laughter. "You were starting to sound like my mom!" Lizzie interjected, leaning back into the couch. She didn't know how she managed to hold in the laughter, but somehow she did.

Caroline relaxed a little; if this were true, she would be immensely relieved, but she couldn't be certain. One shouldn't get one's hopes up needlessly, after all. Lizzie was evidently hiding something from her, and she wanted to get to the bottom of what it was. There _was_ something strange going on between her and Darcy, whether or not they wanted to admit it. Caroline shot Lizzie a genuinely peeved look, her eyes briefly darting over to Darcy, and Lizzie's smile faltered. Caroline grew steadily more suspicious.

Lizzie took a deep breath, knowing what she must do. "There's nothing going on between me and Darcy. _Really_." She'd been as direct and pointed as she could be, but the distrustful look remained firmly in place. Lizzie didn't quite despair of having to explain herself and make things up to Caroline, but she did immensely dislike the thought of going to so much effort needlessly. "We talked about the beach, the area, the weather... really riveting subject matter," Lizzie continued sarcastically, once again not looking over at Darcy and irritably wishing he would just quit the room already so that she had more freedom to speak.

Just at that moment, right before Caroline was about to ask Lizzie yet another question about her relationship with Darcy, Bing and her sister reentered the room. Jane had cookies in the oven, and the two had left, hand-in-hand, to go check on them. Their sudden reappearance to announce that the cookies were done startled the rest of the group, and Jane and Bing looked at each other wondering if they'd missed something important. Bing suggested playing a game, drawing Caroline out by suggesting a childhood favorite, Sorry!. Her eyes narrowed, but she reluctantly agreed to play, if only to trounce the others with satisfaction.

She and Jane both attempted to entreat Lizzie to play, but Lizzie insisted that she needed to catch up on some reading. Bing, meanwhile, had asked Darcy to join, but he'd cast a single dismissive look at the childish game and decided against it almost instantaneously. He was polite, though, and he made his excuses about business emails and writing to check in with Gigi. He left to get his laptop and settled himself a bit off to the side, relatively far from both Lizzie and the gaming trio. It was much pleasanter to be in company while attending to boring but necessary business matters... at least occasionally. Caroline was usually persistent enough to have some success in both interrupting him and slowly driving him insane.

Darcy allowed himself to cast a single glance over at Lizzie as he opened his email. She was reading a book of Chekhov's short stories that she'd gotten from the public library with a kind of quiet enjoyment. He wished he had even half of her contentedness sometimes; she was happy with so little, always laughing and smiling. For a moment he thought of saying something to her or attempting to make conversation about her book, but he despaired of something to say. Too soon, he tore his gaze away from her, trying to put her out of his mind, and went back to the email he was writing. A cheerful Bing broke the relative quiet, "All the women here seem very together." He was looking mostly at Jane when he said it, and she colored faintly.

Caroline raised her brows, glancing up from the piece she'd just finished with. "What do you mean by that, Bing?" she asked shrewdly, casting dismissive glances at both Bennets. Neither of the other girls or Bing noticed, however. Bing drew his card and made his move, brightly apologizing and knocking one of Caroline's pieces back to home. Caroline scowled.

"All the women here know what they're doing and exactly what they want from life. Everyone has everything planned out," Bing explained after a brief pause, letting out a little laugh. "I wish I was so sure about anything!" Caroline smirked. At this point, those who did not know Bing so well ought to perhaps have been a bit alarmed, but Jane merely smiled. Lizzie had looked up but was far more enraptured in her book than what Bing was saying.

Darcy, meanwhile, barely stifled the urge to roll his eyes. Bing was modest, yes, and indecisive and occasionally impetuous besides, but it would be a mistake to say he didn't entirely know what he wanted. Bing had wanted to be a doctor since he was about five and had worked very hard to get to his present position; that, at least, was one in a series of his good fortunes that was not merely due to luck. Darcy snorted. "Some women are considered "together" if they know how to tip a waiter and go to the gym twice a week," he countered a bit snidely, opening up the New York Times webpage to catch up on some reading. Caroline laughed loudly and not completely genuinely, making her sound a bit like a hyena.

Lizzie stiffened, her jaw a bit tighter than usual, briefly looking up from her book. Typical Darcy. Nothing was good enough for him. He probably had a list of requirements for his Barbie Dream Girl, his standards so high and ridiculous that no woman could possibly ever measure up. It really made her wonder what he was doing with her. "And what, in your opinion, makes a woman truly "together," Darcy?" she asked a bit sharply, unable to stop herself. She arched her brows, one eye on the words, the other on him. Jane and Bing exchanged slightly worried glances, but then Jane drew another card and started moving her piece towards her goal.

Darcy straightened a bit in his seat, surprised at the direct address. He glanced up at her, his lips turning upward slightly at the corners. He spared it but a few moments of thought. He'd had a list of his ideal woman for quite some time, a woman with all of his and his family's recommendations united in one person. It was by no means a short list, but Lizzie wasn't asking him what he wanted. She was asking for a definition, and he couldn't help but wonder why. "In order to be truly together, a woman must first fit three requirements: she must possess at least an advanced college degree, be fiscally responsible, and be physically fit," Darcy began seriously. Caroline tossed her hair as if to call attention to the fact that she was the only woman present who fit all three requirements.

Lizzie's jaw remained tight, as it always did whenever anyone mentioned financial issues to her face. Darcy did not notice. He instead cleared his throat and pressed on, "In order to be considered _accomplished_, she must be well-rounded and informed... by which I mean up to date on current affairs, fluent in more than one language, with an appreciation for the arts that does not include Hollywood movies or popular music, and a talent for something other than watching reality television." There was a bit of a mocking undertone to his voice that didn't escape Lizzie's notice and made him even more insufferable... especially since her mother was incredibly invested in reality television.

Lizzie was personally caught up in wondering what arts didn't include Hollywood movies and finding him insufferably hipster for thinking that no good music or movies could be mainstream. Why did he only approve of things if no one else liked them; wasn't universality a much more salient feature and one much more linked with longevity? She found that it personally undercut the nostalgia or particular significance she attached to certain things, like the way she invariably associated the Backstreet Boys with her childhood or how certain songs brought certain people or memories to mind.

His intense gaze dropped to her and her book. "And she should broaden and enrich her mind with extensive reading, but that goes without saying," he remarked blithely, wishing he could catch her gaze. Lizzie glanced up from her book abruptly, visibly startled. It was perhaps the quality that most characterized her.

She recovered quickly, however, and was soon back to the story she'd just begun to get immersed in. Her thoughts were on Dmitri, Anna, and the beaches of Yalta. Perhaps ironically, when she loaned Darcy the book a bit less than a week later, he found that same story beautiful and equally compelling. This was perhaps because he was more aware of the way his life paralleled the story, though it might be said that he underestimated the degree in which the story was actually similar to his life, or that it held certain lessons he would be wise to learn. Even more strangely, when they talked about the book later, they did not discuss the story, though it was one of Chekhov's most famous and both of them had thought it the best short story in the book. Perhaps both realized that talking about it would hit a bit too close to home, that such a conversation would bring up things they were unwilling to consider alone, much less discuss.

Caroline, meanwhile, smiled smugly. She was fluent in three languages, had year-round box seats at the opera and the ballet, regularly went to independent art shows, and had cultivated a multitude of talents that Darcy knew of. She held her head up high. It was only a matter of time before Darcy appreciated these qualities in her in a deeper way. He just had to spend a bit more time with his aunt and have this duty to marry and marry well more fully impressed on him. It was getting around the time to settle down, after all, and neither of them were getting any younger. Caroline only had so much patience; she wouldn't—and couldn't—wait around forever for Darcy to come around and realize that the perfect woman was right in front of his eyes.

Unfortunately for her, however, Darcy did not have her specifically in mind. These were merely the demands of his set and his society. He should find and respect cultured, intelligent, poised, and responsible women, or, really, just the one. More women was not his style or something he had the patience for, not to mention it being socially-frowned-upon, even if one was discreet. He should find a woman who would satisfy all of his aunt's requirements and fulfill all of his and his family's expectations, someone eminently respectable and above reproach. His ideal woman was independently wealthy and employed, someone who could stand on her own, an equal, but also someone who could stand on his arm and smile when necessary.

It was strange that he'd never thought much of the personality of his future spouse. Though he tried to hide it, Aunt Catherine was almost as bad as Mrs. Bennet in obsessing over his relationships (or lack thereof) and stressing the importance of entering the married state. As someone who'd been married no less than three times (honestly, Darcy wasn't entirely sure how many times his aunt had been married), she was particularly well-versed on the subject, but it made Darcy take everything she said with a grain of salt.

He paused for just a bit longer trying to think of the rarely considered personality aspect of an accomplished woman. Darcy suddenly wondered why he hadn't thought about this, the key aspect more, as a great many of the women he knew who fit the other categories were actually quite unpleasant, two-faced, or had other alarming personality defects. He was silent for a bit too long, straining to remember his mother.

She had been perfect, he was sure, from what little he remembered and the stories he'd heard from his father and aunt. She had always known what to do and what to say. She'd had a gentle, compassionate nature, a way of coaxing him and his father out of their moods. She had been quiet sometimes, the way Gigi was, but she put everyone at ease without even trying. He wished he remembered more, but with each year those precious memories slipped further and further away, obscured by time, distance, and his father's stonelike silence whenever she'd been brought up. Darcy cleared his throat as a lump began to well up there, as it did whenever he thought about his mother for too long.

"Personality-wise, an accomplished woman knows her worth," he continued haltingly, suddenly uncomfortable at all the attention. He'd glanced around and realized that everyone but the one person he wanted to look at him was watching. Lizzie, meanwhile, was torn between two emotions. She was simultaneously trying not to snort at Darcy's ridiculous demands as well as attempting to conceal her frustration that his baritone kept breaking her concentration.

He said the first two things that came to mind, the least offensive things he could think of. "She's selective, courteous..." He tried not to think of how the youngest Bennet sister didn't fit either of these requirements by a long shot. "And..." He paused for a moment, briefly noting the expression on Jane's face and seizing on his last requirement. "She should have a charitable nature." His failure to say kindness was deliberate. He'd discovered that kindness was cheap, more often than not a product of politeness, that it could just as easily lack sincerity or real care. There was nothing Darcy hated more than artifice.

Lizzie looked over at him for a moment and just stared, still somewhat disbelieving. It was obvious what Darcy's priorities were, and it was similarly obvious that he was going to be terribly lonely someday. He wanted a trophy wife, how very high society of him and... surprisingly disappointing. She'd somehow expected more of him than that. He would either be miserable in the company of that mythical, cool, cruel exotic creature he was describing, who was perfect in every sense and fulfilled his every requirement, but lacked a heart or any real human warmth... or he would die, cool and aloof and proud, on his pedestal. For a moment, she almost pitied him.

Jane, on the other hand, was actually looking at Darcy like she genuinely pitied him. Her smile had fallen a bit; his high standards clearly masked a need for something else. Neither Darcy nor her sister, who had gone back to reading, her brow wrinkled faintly in consternation, noticed, but Bing did. He broke the silence that had fallen over them after a moment or two, sliding his hand into Jane's unthinkingly. "So, how many "together" women do you know, Darce?" he asked with a ready smile, as if prepared to make a joke.

Darcy's cutting eyes glanced up from his computer screen. He stared at Bing for a moment and then replied shortly, "No more than a half dozen." He shrugged as if to excuse the small number, and Bing frowned as if Darcy had somehow failed him. The only accomplished women Darcy could think of were some old college classmates from the right families and, of course, his sister. And perhaps Caroline, when he was feeling especially generous, and she was being particularly tolerable.

Lizzie had attempted to hold her tongue, but, unable to let that stand, she eventually couldn't help but snort. She was absolutely certain he wasn't including her in that definition. Naturally, Darcy directed his more-than-usually-intense stare at her, pretending as if he hadn't been surreptitiously peering over at her. She could see the question reflected there, and she looked past him to see that he wasn't the only one with a questioning expression. "You won't find anyone like that here," she said dismissively, knowing of his low opinion of the town and its inhabitants. He acted like he condescended to go out in public and associate with people who were so clearly his inferior in every sense of the word.

At least, not anyone who isn't completely insufferable, she amended. Such a woman, if indeed she existed, would be a perfect match for Darcy, no doubt with enough pride and arrogance to even rival his. She smiled grimly. Darcy raised a brow, opening his mouth to ask her why she was so severe on her own kind, but a withering look from Lizzie shut him up. She tried to avoid rolling her eyes. Lizzie had picked up the book with the intention of using it as a shield to avoid having to interact with him or be sociable, but he'd clearly seen fit to draw her into it anyway, the insufferable man.

She closed her book pointedly. "I'm kinda tired. I think I'm going to head to b-sleep," Lizzie said, rising and affecting a loud yawn. Darcy's face fell slightly, so slightly that even Bing or Caroline (who made a habit of more intimately studying his facial expressions) wouldn't have noticed, even if they'd been looking. He'd been looking forward to their lively debates, and he'd wished their conversation could've gone on longer. She did look genuinely weary, though, or at least not-in-the-mood, and it struck him suddenly that he'd been with her at some point, sometimes even multiple points, almost every day for a week. It was getting increasingly difficult to write this off as merely scratching an itch or alleviating the boring monotony of his days of pseudo-vacation.

She was beginning to creep into his thoughts at the oddest moments. What was perhaps worse than that was that those moments he was alone with her were easily the highlights of his days, and, quite honestly, the highlight of his entire stay at Netherfield.

"Have fun with your game," Lizzie said with an apologetic smile before anyone could protest. Jane frowned at her faintly; her sister rarely went to bed early. Lizzie forced a smile, but it didn't meet her eyes, and she avoided Jane's vaguely concerned gaze. There were, as usual, multiple ways she could exit, but the one closest to her bedroom required her to pass Darcy. She held her head up high, a finger holding her place in the book, and walked towards him. As she came towards him, she tripped over the edge of the Persian rug, which would not quite lie flat on the floor. She ended up half-falling onto Darcy's chair. Since he'd been watching her, he reached a hand out and caught her arm, preventing her from crashing into him.

Her gaze met Darcy's as she flushed, embarrassed at her uncharacteristic clumsiness. He held the stare and her arm a bit too long and too intensely for her to be comfortable with it. She turned her head to the side, leaning in just a little, so that she was more or less whispering into his ear, "Guess that means I'm not your type, then." Then, just as abruptly, she straightened, backing away from him, and shrugged as if to say "too bad." Her smile was particularly sardonic, her lip turning down just enough to convey her pretended disappointment. She was well-aware of the irony in what she was saying, but apparently Darcy, rather like herself, was far less discerning about who he allowed into his bed. "Thanks, Darcy," she said a bit tightly, gently prying her hand from his arm.

He merely stared up at her, at a loss for words. Too late he realized how she might take his words, even though... well, he couldn't say he hadn't intended for them to come off that way, but he'd felt more like he was addressing himself than her, reminding himself of all the reasons why not. Of all the reasons why what he was doing with her was out of character and wrong. He hadn't realized he was still holding onto her arm, and he felt a bit lost without his fingers wrapped around the base of her upper arm, just above her elbow. The feel of her skin, soft and warm under his fingers, had a way of grounding him, of reminding him of pleasanter, private moments.

Then she was gone. She went straight to her room, changing clothes and curling back up in her bed, book in hand. She immersed herself in her reading and didn't spare a conscious thought on Darcy for the rest of the evening. For his part, Darcy attempted to distract himself with work for about thirty minutes before he looked down and realized he'd gotten absolutely nothing done; his mind was upstairs with Lizzie, apparently. He made his excuses, claiming an early business meeting or that he was having difficulty concentrating (he can't remember which), and headed upstairs.

He immediately texted Lizzie, and when she didn't respond, he made his way to her room. He knocked on the door with the sharp rap that was his signature knock. She didn't answer, and he wondered, not for the first time, if she was ignoring him. It wasn't her nature to ignore him (she usually texted back, even to say no), but he supposed she could be mad at him. He almost turned around, thinking it would be best not to bother her, but something gave him pause.

It was not the first time he'd paused outside of her door, unsure about whether or not to go in. He'd been taught never to enter a lady's private space without knocking first or getting her explicit permission and and invitation to come in (to which Lizzie had quipped the first time, "What are you, a vampire?" before glancing around and pulling him into her bedroom). However, this time, something compelled him to gently ease the door open. One peek couldn't hurt, right? She'd given him permission to enter at other times, after all. He peered through the crack between the door frame and the door, and he was slightly surprised, disappointed, and amused to note that Lizzie was asleep.

He couldn't bring himself to really be upset with her, though, or even really disappointed that he wasn't getting laid tonight. She was reclined against the many pillows, a blanket thrown loosely over her waist, the book she'd been reading earlier open at her side. He leaned against the doorframe, mesmerized at the sight of her breathing slowly rising and falling. It was the first time he'd ever seen her sleep, though he'd sometimes seen her yawning and rubbing her eyes when she was leaving his room or if he encountered her in the hall before breakfast. At that moment, it occurred to him that he'd never seen Lizzie asleep because she didn't trust him (was there a sign of more complete trust than falling asleep in another's presence?). She didn't feel comfortable enough in his presence to fall asleep there, nor, for that matter, did he.

He didn't fully trust himself around her. She made him act out of character and do things he hadn't thought himself capable or desirous of doing. His sex-life had gone from virtually nonexistent/self-service, just one of a litany of things he was too busy to do or have, to adventurous and playful overnight. His every nerve ending seared when he was in close proximity to her; her presence was so electric that he sometimes found he was so on edge and wound up still that he had trouble sleeping at all. He was satisfied, of course, and wonderfully, terribly alive, but it felt like there was something was missing.

But, then, maybe he was wrong about that. Maybe he'd never seen her sleep because that wasn't included in their arrangement... falling asleep together, either accidentally or out of convenience, seemed like crossing a line. It could just be because it was easier that way, easier to leave, doing everything under the cover of night, and make sure no one found out than to stay and risk discovery. Maybe she didn't think he was interested in that sort of thing, as he himself hadn't realized until this moment. It was strange how suddenly the irrational desire to have her fall asleep in his bed, at his side, came over him.

She looked different in sleep, more fragile and less dynamic than she was ordinarily but no less endearing. Lizzie looked so small, curled up on the big bed with its veritable heap of pillows, dwarfed by the blanket. He smiled without thinking of it, the word "adorable" popping into his mind. He had never before applied that word to her. He stared in the doorway for a minute or so before he realized what he was doing, and he shook his head. He glanced around behind him to see if anyone was there, and, satisfied upon seeing no one, he opened the door wider and slipped inside, carefully and quietly shutting it behind him.

He was walking over to her bed and bending down over her before he understood the impulse. He reached out almost reflexively to adjust the pillows underneath her so that she wouldn't wake up uncomfortable. Then he pulled the blanket up over her chest, tucking her in the way he did Gigi. Lizzie turned in her sleep, and his fingers stilled, only relaxing when she sighed in her sleep and snuggled into the blanket. He studied the side of her face, admiring the angularity of her features, the traces of inexperience and childlike innocence that remained stamped into her freckled, creamy skin. He absently reached out to trace the curve of her cheek, his fingers brushing away the silky strands of dark auburn hair that rested there.

She made a little noise of something that could've well been contentment, leaning into his touch, pressing her skin against his. He drew back, startled at the strange but not unpleasant urge to kiss her forehead, of the affection he felt, seeing her like this, soft and somehow more naked than he'd ever seen her. He left the room as if he'd been burned, trying frantically to erase the sight of her there, sleeping peacefully, from his mind. It spoke of a kind of domesticity that was forbidden to him; he could not or should not want it. The last thing he needed was for her to misunderstand his interest, to expect something more than he could give.

This was, after all, just a casual, fleeting summer affair. It would end when he left, or sooner, and neither of them would look back on it with anything other than nostalgia, a wisp of regret at no longer being able to have such great sex, and perhaps a bit of fondness. They would part and likely never see her again.

For some reason, this last thought, of never seeing her again, unaccountably disappointed him even more than the thought of the amazing sex he'd be missing.

- Loren ;*


	3. Behind Closed Doors

Okay, so now we have the chapters chronologically in order, so, I repeat, CHECK CHAPTER TWO IF YOU ARE CONFUSED AS TO WHY YOU ARE SEEING THREE CHAPTERS BUT NOTICE THAT THE TEXT OF THIS ONE IS THE SAME AS THE OTHER ONE. THERE IS A NEW CHAPTER. IT'S JUST BEFORE THIS ONE. Hopefully the chapter title tipped you off about that, but... But from a time standpoint, all you need to know is that this happens sometime after Episode 30, still in the Netherfield arc. It's supposed to be comparatively well into Lizzie's stay, maybe a bit after the mid-point, probably at least three days after the chapter before this one, so they've been doing this for a while...

Anyway, I'm excited about this chapter because I got to write a character that I have never written before. I like that this story has enabled me to write characters aside from Lizzie and Darcy, which is something I never expected when I started out. Anyway, sorry that this one's a bit shorter, and it's not super-duper plot important. Also, I know Lydia and Lizzie herself have established that she sort of sucks at lying, but given my experience with communication majors and communication classes in general... which is not extensive by any means, but I think is sufficient for my purposes... is that a lot of being a comm major is knowing how to BS and make stuff up off of the top of your head. And given that Lizzie is obviously so very good at improvising, I feel like she could probs be a better liar than she lets on, so... or, at the very least, a better liar than Darcy, obtuse block that he is.

Also, because it is obligatory that I must say this, I don't own the Lizzie Bennet Diaries. Or anything remotely resembling it aside from the book and the movie (in this physical forms. Obviously I didn't create those). There would be more horizontal mambo time if I did. I also don't own any books or brands or things potentially mentioned below. As always, I hope you enjoy it. Also, the next chapter or so should probably be a bit sexier, but whatever.

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Darcy opened the door for Lizzie with a faint little smile on his face. Lizzie's eyes narrowed in displeasure at the knowing smile. He motioned for her to go through it with an unnecessary (and rather dramatic) flourish. Lizzie glanced around rapidly to see if anyone had noticed his incredibly noticeable gesture, but fortunately it seemed to have attracted no one's attention. Bing and Jane had gone ahead of them and were more happily engaged, and they were unlikely to notice any interaction between her and Darcy. Even stranger, Caroline wasn't watching and had failed to notice Darcy's uncharacteristic fit of manners or chivalry.

Peering through the door to make sure no one was paying attention, Lizzie frowned, knocking his hand off of the doorknob, shutting the door, and then proceeding to block it with her body. She probably should've asked the others to give her a minute or made up an excuse or _something_, but she didn't want to draw needless attention to herself or the two of them. Plus, he was getting on her last nerve, and there wasn't time for that clarity or prescience of thought when he was being like this.

Darcy's smile fell as he took in the suddenly serious look on her face. She surprised him further by grabbing his arm and taking him aside roughly, away from the door, clearly afraid that someone might overhear what she had to say to him. Darcy didn't care quite so much as she did if anyone found out, but it would make his life considerably more awkward as Bing would undoubtedly misunderstand the situation... and then Caroline would probably be nastier to the both of them or, worse still, she'd make it her personal mission to ensure he never got laid again.

He snapped his attention back to Lizzie, who was glowering up at him, shaking his arm. "Unless you want _everyone_ to know, stop being so damn obvious about it," Lizzie hissed, releasing him abruptly and taking a step back to get some distance. She crossed an arm over her chest and turned this way and that, suddenly restless. He'd never noticed that before. When she finally was able to look at him, she let out a breath and continued, as if mildly exasperated, "You're being weird."

Darcy's brow furrowed in confusion. "Weird how?" he asked. To his utter embarrassment, his voice cracked while he was asking the question. He tried not to cringe at the fact that he sounded like a twelve-year-old-boy with his first crush, rather than a man over twice that age who shaved, drank, voted, and could legally rent a car, not to mention had millions of dollars literally at his fingertips. He had been trying to sound casual too; he thought he'd been acting perfectly normal, low-key... he couldn't _already_ be doing something wrong, could he?

Lizzie's eyebrows shot up in disbelief, and she crossed both arms over her chest. "Well, aside from your little _staring __problem_," she began, giving him a pointed look that was a rather accurate mimic of his own intense stare. He looked down, feeling his cheeks flush and hoping she didn't notice. Darcy had found himself almost incapable of taking his eyes off of her now that he knew what lie underneath. He was having trouble reconciling things with himself, particularly this sudden, intimate knowledge he now had of her. "-You agreed with me in an argument, just opened a door for me-" Lizzie continued, ticking them off on one hand.

Darcy's eyes closed momentarily at her recitation. He had agreed with her in an argument because he'd agreed with her. He did agree with her, really and truly, more often than not; he just usually didn't vocalize it in such a way. Perhaps that was a bit careless, but he'd been in a damn good mood, and he didn't want to make things acrimonious for later on. He didn't intend to waste any precious time he had alone with her arguing. "-That's just common courtesy," he countered in regards to the latter statement. He would've opened the door for her regardless, just as he would for Bing or her sister or even Caroline. That was just what gentlemen and people with good manners did, after all.

Lizzie gave him a skeptical look but didn't argue with that point. She wasn't willing to concede, yet, however. Her hands migrated to her hips. "-And earlier you were going to put your hand on the small of my back. Yeah, I noticed... What's up with that?" She raised her eyebrows yet again, and Darcy found the look on her face mildly comical. He remembered that moment. They'd been walking close to one another, partly out of necessity due to the cramped space and partly also by accident, their arms almost brushing, and he'd reached out for the small of her back, just to guide her, maybe to steady her, before he could help himself. Worryingly, he'd done it without a single thought, and he would've actually touched her if Lizzie hadn't noticed and suddenly moved out of his potential grasp. A part of him kind of hated that she'd noticed, as worrisome as it was that he was (perhaps rightfully) viewing her body as an extension of his own.

His hand caught air, and they'd stared at each other for a moment, both of their eyes wide with something like horror. Lizzie gave him a stern look, silently reminding him of the rules they had established, which shamed him. Then, as if they'd shared a thought, they both tore their gaze away and glanced around to see if the others had noticed this moment of weirdness. Fortunately they hadn't, but in a moment Bing turned and saw that they were frozen and gave Darcy an odd look. He'd attempted to smile, and they'd both resumed their walk in awkward silence. Darcy's hand had ached and tingled to touch her for the rest of the day.

Darcy sighed. "Okay, I can see your point," he admitted somewhat unwillingly. His eyes shot over to the door; he was mildly surprised no one, by which he meant Caroline, had noticed that he and Lizzie had not followed them. Caroline was not in his thoughts for long; he moved towards Lizzie, admiring her once more now that he was free to do so. He was already looking forward to tonight when he'd get to be alone with her again on a more... personal level. Not that this stolen daytime moment didn't have its own particular appeal, but he knew he'd have to wait until tonight to kiss her.

Lizzie's eyes widened further. It was the second time that day that Darcy had agreed with her; it was downright unnerving. Darcy disagreeing with her and being generally disagreeable was the one thing she _could_ count on here to break-up the monotony of feeling like the meanest, least adorable person in the room. To make matters worse, he had the nerve to actually smile to himself, like he thought she wouldn't notice. The satisfied, almost gleeful grin playing at his lips was one thing, but combined with that knowing I-_so_-slept-with-you-recently-and-I'm-going-to-do-it-again-soon look... it was just unbearable. An uncomfortable twisting in her gut served to remind her that it also made him look strangely boyish and not older than his years for once.

She couldn't be the _only_ one who'd noticed that Darcy had apparently become an entirely different person overnight. He wasn't being subtle at all with this Mr. Easygoing-I-Smile-All-the-Time-act. She'd kinda thought he, of _all_ people, King of the Poker Face, Mr. Unemotional personified, would be able to control himself and hide whatever he was thinking or feeling. Given how mysterious and quiet he was, she'd thought he could keep a secret. No one who knew her would think her capable of any of it, yet here she was managing to hide this from her sisters and friends while doing it in the same house as them, not to mention the fact that Darcy had no idea she hated him quite as much as she did. Lizzie felt a surge of irrational anger, knowing that in some respect this was all her fault, and her lips turned downward. "And you're _smiling_!" she exclaimed accusingly, jabbing him in the chest.

Darcy wanted to laugh at how suspicious she sounded about something as innocuous as him smiling, but he was surprised to hear that he'd been smiling. He hadn't realized. His smile fell further when he thought about her words a bit more; was she saying he never smiled? Was his smile inherently suspicious to her? Did she not like it? He was once again reduced to feeling awkward, like he didn't know how to function in his own skin. He was always like this around her. He cleared his throat, trying not to sound angry, but the words came out a bit more forcefully and defensively than he'd intended. "What's wrong with that?!"

She made a face. "It's suspicious!" she protested. She paused a moment, wetting her lips before adding, "You _never_ smile." If any traces of a smile had remained on Darcy's face, the way she'd said that, the way it hung in the air... made them vanish entirely. She'd said it so baldfaced and matter-of-fact, and, worse still, he realized she was right. Bing and Gigi had both previously said things to that effect, as even Caroline had on occasion. Which inevitably led to Darcy wondering what it was about Lizzie that had him smiling more or if it was just some side-effect of actually getting some on the regular (and, God, that thought! He'd just sounded like George. Casual sex was _that_ repulsive man's domain, not his. What _was_ he doing with his life?!).

She stared him down intently, clearly expecting some sort of answer to this. He bit his lip, not wanting to risk irritating her by agreeing with her yet again (that seemed to puzzle and annoy her even more than disagreeing with her). He found himself being honest before he could really think about it. "Maybe I don't have a lot to smile about... not like you," he blurted, looking down shyly when he realized what he'd said. Obviously she hadn't wanted to hear that. She didn't want to know these things about him; that wasn't the way this sort of thing worked.

And, ugh, _why_ was he still using George's Hook-Up Rules? Even if the man got more tail than—Darcy shook his head, growing mortified at this train of thought. He could never become like Wickham, nor did he want to be; he was not the sort of man who objectified women or viewed them as interchangeable. Darcy suppressed a sigh and rubbed the back of his neck.

At that particular moment, he looked the very picture of tall, dark, and super awkward to Lizzie (but, then, when was he not?). A few strands of hair were even falling across his brow, heading towards his eyes, as if trying to help obscure them from view. Unfortunately, his hair wasn't quite long enough to actually accomplish this. She could still see that his eyes were as clear blue as a damn swimming pool.

And that he looked kind of sad. It occurred to her briefly that the dark cloud that seemed to be perpetually hanging over him and causing his rather stormy, brooding moods might well be misery—though she couldn't quite account for why he would be so very unhappy. There was also a kind of compliment in the words, insomuch as smiling more than never was a compliment. Hadn't he said her sister smiled too much anyway? He probably also hated her own laughter; she'd even laughed once or twice in his company, and she'd never heard Darcy so much as snicker in the months she'd known him.

She crossed her arms over her chest again, inadvertently leaning in towards him. Her eyes silently challenged him and pierced right through him. "And why is that?" she asked slowly, wanting to understand it. What could he lack? Lizzie also wanted to know what had made him start smiling all of a sudden, but she figured she could guess the answer to that question.

He froze. He didn't have an answer, at least not one he was prepared to give. Telling her about his parents, George, his many responsibilities, and what had happened to Gigi... that was all too much for some girl who was nothing more than a convenient summer fling. He hated the way that sounded, the way it made _her_ sound, because she _was_ more than that. Darcy didn't do casual, as everyone who even remotely knew him knew. He didn't do this lightly or without thought; there was something about her that had forced his hand, and he was glad it had, glad he knew the pleasure of her. But all the same, he didn't want it to mean anything because it couldn't and that... that was a slippery slope he wasn't ready to scale.

He hadn't even realized that he was happy until she'd pointed out his apparent perpetual depression, and he'd felt how it had lightened, and that was pretty damn pathetic. "I..." he began unthinkingly, staring at her and not knowing what was going to follow his words. However, fortunately or unfortunately depending on how one looked at it, Bing burst into the room unannounced, a mildly worried look on his face. Darcy fought the urge to roll his eyes at having yet another precious moment with Lizzie interrupted, even if he was a bit grateful that Bing's sudden entrance meant he wouldn't have to answer her question and tell her something real.

It wasn't the first time Bing had interrupted, but at least this time Caroline hadn't all but fallen through the doorway after her brother. Both Lees, having known Darcy for years, knew or should know that he was a private person. He and Bing had roomed together, so of course it was different with them... and Bing wasn't exactly the greatest with boundaries anyway, but Caroline... she had this unfortunate habit of "accidentally" walking in on him, making some excuse of wanting to check in on him or wanting to see that he'd been settled properly or saying goodnight. Fortunately he was clothed pretty much every time she did, but still. Both Lees had interrupted his time with Lizzie at least once already, and it was starting to get on Darcy's nerves.

Bing had come in late one night with barely any notice, just a couple soft knocks and quietly saying his name and asking him if he was asleep. Lizzie had barely had enough time to scramble off the bed, put her shirt back on and duck into Darcy's closet. She'd gotten tangled in Darcy's sheets and had almost hit the floor, swearing viciously under her breath; she would have if Darcy hadn't grabbed her arm and leaned over to help untangle her at the right moment. Predictably, the lovesick future-doctor had come in to ask him for advice on Jane, as if Darcy was any good with relationships. Because clearly he would be secretly sleeping with Lizzie Bennet if he was _any_ good at relationships, not that Bing could know that, but still!

It was worse with Caroline. She'd come in one night to give Darcy some new sheets, even though the maid had changed them earlier that morning. She'd knocked three times, but Darcy had been too engrossed in Lizzie to hear her until Caroline spoke. "Darcy, I know you're in there!" His veins had turned to ice, and Lizzie had frozen, raising her brows and giving him a look that echoed his own thoughts. Darcy bit his lip, slipping out of bed and picking up Lizzie's clothes frantically. He hissed at her to pull up the big, fluffy sheets and pillows and hide under them while he threw Lizzie's clothes in with his laundry. He didn't have time to marvel at the shared domesticity of that as he buried her clothes in his dirty ones.

He kicked his own clothes under the bed, snapping at Caroline to give him a minute because he'd been sleeping, and then all but jumped back under the covers. He wished he had time to dress properly or at least put on underwear, since he knew all of her tricks, but it was all he could do to pull the covers up to his neck and turn half to the side. Lizzie stifled a giggle, and he stiffened, about to pull down the covers to give her a very stern and serious look, when she touched him. He bit back a groan, but Lizzie's hand didn't move in any way, and he understood suddenly what she was trying to do and appreciated it, even if it was probably going to drive him crazy. At least Caroline didn't have to know that he was turned on, lest she get all the wrong ideas about why, let alone that he'd been in the middle of having sex and with Lizzie Bennet, of all people.

Truthfully, most of the time, _he_ couldn't even believe it.

Bing smiled timidly, waving. "Hi, guys." Darcy nodded in acknowledgment, barely taking his eyes off Lizzie, while Lizzie forced a strained smile in his direction. "What are you two, uh, talking about?" Bing asked, moving forward, rubbing his hands together. Darcy shot him a sideways glance, noting his friend's sudden anxiety. He said nothing. Bing laughed nervously. "We got kinda worried when you just... disappeared without saying anything," he continued, glancing from one of them to another. His gaze lingered a bit longer on Darcy, as if he knew something about him Lizzie didn't. Lizzie fixed her gaze on Bing, realizing almost immediately why he seemed so alarmed. He thought she'd snapped and gone off on Darcy; Lizzie stifled a snort. If he'd only known.

Lizzie smoothed her dress absently, faking a sweet smile to put Bing at ease. Darcy had raised his eyebrows, clearly wondering what she intended to say. "I was... just asking Darcy for some advice. On men," she said, looking beyond him to see if Caroline was watching. Lizzie's smile dropped a fraction. Uncharacteristically, Caroline was not in the doorway. Darcy was a bit confused, wondering where she'd take this, how she would explain. Nonetheless, he nodded solidly, silently agreeing with her even when Bing gave him a questioning glance.

Bing's eyebrows shot up. "Really? What about?" There was no hiding the skepticism in his voice. It would've been a bit more amusing if Lizzie wasn't lying to him. He looked from Lizzie to Darcy and back again, sure they were hiding something from him. People often underestimated Bing's intelligence because of his good nature and occasional absentmindedness, and he couldn't help but feel like this was one of those times. Then again, he chose to surround himself with friends who seemed smarter than he did, and sometimes he felt like they were communicating at some level above his head, speaking of things he couldn't understand between the lines. Lizzie and Darcy's minds worked similarly enough; it could just be something about that, some private joke he didn't understand.

She huffed out an exaggerated sigh. Perhaps the part of this she enjoyed the most was watching Darcy attempt not to squirm, afraid she was going to blow it at any moment. Truthfully, she felt a bit bad for Bing as he looked from her to Darcy, like a dog expecting a treat, uncertain of where it would come from. "Well, actually, if you must know..." she began, pausing just a moment to see if Bing did indeed have to know. Bing was giving her a wide-eyed look that obligated her to continue. Lizzie plastered a slightly bashful expression on her face. "You," she said awkwardly. Bing's mouth dropped open. Darcy was back to looking at her admiringly, but Lizzie looked down, lacing her fingers together and playing with them. "I was, uh, wondering what you'd like for your birthday. It's coming up, right?" Lizzie continued quickly.

Bing nodded slowly, smiling in that confused way he did sometimes. He looked a bit chagrined, looking over to Darcy, but Darcy was decidedly avoiding his stare. Lizzie shrugged helplessly. "My dad's pretty much the only guy I shop for, and I, uh, thought your best friend here might have some suggestions," she said, motioning briefly towards Darcy. If being a Mass Comm major had taught her anything, it was how to lie to just about anyone, even herself (even if Lydia disagreed). She didn't have to like it; she just had to do it, to spin it.

Bing's gaze lingered on Darcy, who refused to look at him, and he couldn't help but wonder if Darcy was hiding something more from him. Darcy was a horrible liar, and it wasn't in his nature to bend the truth, though he did like to play things pretty close to the vest sometimes. There was a lot about his friend he didn't know, and something about what Lizzie was saying didn't sit completely right with him. He turned his focus back to Lizzie. "Well, did he?" he asked, eyes shooting between them and searching for something.

Lizzie blinked, glancing briefly at Darcy and then back at him. "I can't very well tell you if he did, Bing," she said, reaching over to pat him on the shoulder. She wore a somewhat smug smile, and, for that one moment, she reminded him incredibly of Caroline. Then, strangely, she went to move past Bing, the smile smaller but still there. "But yes, he was a great help," she added enigmatically. Some strange kind of dark electric charge seemed to permeate the air and pass between them. Despite his many years of chemistry and physics, Bing could not explain what it was, but he did notice that Darcy's eyes were a bit brighter, his posture a bit more easy. He was prevented from noticing more by Lizzie making her excuses, saying she was going to join up with the other girls, and slipping out of the room.

Darcy's eyes followed hers, but when they were alone, and Bing asked him about it, he said nothing at all. He may have worn a peculiar kind of expression Bing had never before seen on his friend's face, but Darcy wasn't saying a word. After a minute, he chided Bing for his inattention and followed Lizzie out the door, insisting he was headed for the kitchen. Bing sighed; sometimes talking to Darcy was like talking to a brick wall or a safe... he was never going to get anything out of him.

- Loren ;*

Reviews are extremely appreciated. Hint. ;)


	4. Word By Word

Sorry it's been a while since I last updated. I meant to post this much earlier today, but that did not happen. This chapter wound up being more of a bear than I expected, and I got a bit distracted with future chapters, namely a particularly juicy one involving George. ;) Anyway, the next chapter is... mostly done, and it will be the last Netherfield arc chapter. Things will move a bit quicker from that point since the majority of the post-Netherfield chapters are written already and done.

As for this one, it occurs sometime between Episodes 31 and 32... so Lizzie's been there about three weeks, give or take (I could give you dates if I really wanted, but I'll spare you)... and it hopefully satisfies to some small extent your desires for more Darcy/Lizzie action. I have to say that the characters involved surprised even me quite a bit and kind of expanded this chapter a great deal more than I intended. To its benefit, definitely. Darcy surprised me quite a bit at the end with his little speech, but whatever. I hope I've done a decent job adapting some of the conversations the series didn't really touch on and that it doesn't sound awkwardly formal.

I sadly do not own the LBD. Though I would love to. Or any pop cultural things mentioned here. Oh, and some of the stuff with Caroline was partially inspired by a Caroline fic someone wrote on tumblr. If you've read it you'll know which one, but alas, I forget the title. Also, I must thank Izzy for helping me get through the very end of the chapter when it was driving me completely nuts and helping to bounce ideas around because it so would not have turned out the way it did if we weren't talking.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it! Reviews and questions/comments of all kinds are highly appreciated. Also, apparently I have something ridiculous like exactly a hundred followers for this thing? How can this be?! I love you guys and hope you have a happy holiday and new year!

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Lizzie and Darcy entered the kitchen at roughly the same time, though they came from different sides. Their eyes met briefly when both of them arrived at the large island in the middle of the room. Darcy attempted a smile, and Lizzie attempted to match the expression before making a beeline for the fridge. Her stomach was growling, demanding to be fed, and Lizzie'd worked up quite an appetite.

Bing's massive kitchen had at least three entrances, not to mention the sliding doors that led out to Bing's elaborate terrace, which overlooked the woods that bordered his _estate (_there was, truly, no other word for it). Everything about the kitchen was state of the art—marble countertops, stainless steel everything, multiple ovens, the largest non-commercial refrigerator Lizzie had ever seen, and all the kitchen tools and cooking supplies one could dream of. It was the sort of kitchen that belonged on the Food Network. It would've been perfect for filming, and if Lizzie had the cooking skills or desire, she would've been tempted to make a cooking video there, a la Hannah Hart (albeit a much more sober version).

Lizzie opened the fridge, stiffening a bit at the sudden chill, and rolled her eyes. Trust Darcy to be more or less fully covered as if he were in Aspen or something; he was wearing a new, clean t-shirt, navy striped pajama bottoms that were probably silk or something, and a matching robe that went down to his knees, though it at least wasn't belted closed. He didn't really understand the meaning of casual sleepwear, but he was always fairly covered in public. She quickly cast thoughts of Darcy's ridiculously preppy wardrobe aside, peering into the fridge and trying to find the leftovers she'd been craving.

Darcy, meanwhile, studied her mostly bare back, admiring the curve of her spine and the soft, pretty skin the rather skimpy blue tank-top she was wearing showed off. She'd clearly thrown on the first clothes she'd found, so she was also wearing a pair of light purple plaid shorts that she might've been wearing earlier when he'd come to her room. He didn't entirely remember much more than how great they made her legs look and that he'd divested her of her pajamas much more quickly than he usually undressed her. Lizzie had also put her hair up in a loose bun, baring the irresistible nape of her neck to his gaze.

She'd pulled her hair up because it looked approximately like a bird's nest, tangled and somewhat matted, and it would've been only too obvious to any discerning person she encountered that she'd had sex (or probably Caroline, at the very least). Since there were no men in her life and only two in the house, it would be pretty obvious who her partner had been. As it was close to three in the morning and Darcy was the only person she knew she'd be running into, Lizzie didn't make much of an effort to make herself look more presentable. After all, she didn't really care what Darcy thought about her, and there were only two potential things he could be thinking. He could either be thinking the worst, or he was too satiated to care what she looked like now.

His thoughts tended more towards the latter and were more flattering than she knew. He was smiling to himself at the brightness in her complexion, the way her skin was still just a little flushed. It also hadn't escaped his notice that she was walking a bit different than usual, her strides a bit wider as if she was sore, perhaps, or still sensitive from their earlier activities. The whole thing filled him with a rather unfamiliar masculine pride. She bent over a little, reaching back in the fridge to find the dumplings and leftover Chinese she'd been searching for. Darcy's arms were obviously much longer than hers, but she didn't think to ask him for help. Instead she leaned forward, snatching as many take-out containers as she could reach. Damn, Bing's fridge was deep, she thought with a little frown.

She turned to set the containers on the counter, but Darcy reached out suddenly and snatched them out of her hands and set them on the island he was presently leaning against. Lizzie blinked, not expecting that, but she turned back to the fridge, extracting more take-out containers and handing them to Darcy, who set them with the others. The leftovers had been her idea when she'd registered the gnawing feeling in her stomach preventing her from falling asleep.

She'd mentioned it partly as an excuse to Darcy, but, surprisingly, he'd said he was hungry too and agreed that Chinese would be really good right now. She didn't think he especially liked greasy, filling Chinese food since it was nonorganic and nonprobiotic and all that (which they'd only managed to order because Caroline was out with one of her friends for the day), but she supposed he'd worked up quite an appetite too. Truthfully, Lizzie was too tired and hungry to particularly mind. Sleeping with him was unfortunately building up her "snobby douchebag threshold" and making it disturbingly easier to spend time with him. She figured it was one of those neurotransmitters or endorphins or oxytocin making his presence almost pleasant.

Lizzie carefully reached for the big bowl of fried dumplings the chef had prepared earlier at Bing's genius request. Darcy, meanwhile, was grabbing plates and silverware for them both. He set the plates and silverware down next to the take-out containers and then headed back to the cabinets to get some glasses for them. He was thirsty and more than a little hoarse from their previous activities, as, he assumed, was Lizzie, who was considerably more vocal than he was, even when being quiet.

Lizzie turned, struggling a bit with the heavy ceramic bowl of dumplings. Seeing that Darcy wasn't there to help her, she sighed a little and set the bowl next to the rest of the food. Why did she expect him to help anyway? Darcy took her place at the refrigerator, pulling out the milk and pouring both of them a glass as Lizzie started to open the containers. She looked over her shoulder at him, making a little face. Milk did not go with Chinese food. "Hey, Darce. What do you want?" she asked as he headed back over to put the milk back in the fridge. She'd sounded a bit like Lydia there, and she didn't like that feeling.

For his part, Darcy shrugged, not particularly caring. "I can get it myself," he said off-handedly, setting the glasses off to the side where the stools were. Lizzie shrugged in response, grunting a little, and stepped to the side to give Darcy more room to grab food. She wordlessly passed him the lo mein he'd been eating earlier and emptied half of a container of rice onto the plate he'd gotten for her. Darcy's brows shot up a bit; she'd noticed that aspect of his preferences? He stared at her a bit too long, temporarily forgetting his hunger as Lizzie helped herself to a bit of orange beef. He shook himself out of his thoughts, emptying the rest of the container onto his plate.

He nearly jumped when he felt Lizzie's skin underneath his; they'd both reached for the beef with broccoli at the same time. He felt his cheeks heat faintly but didn't remove his hand. For her part, Lizzie noticed this and merely gave him a weird look, too tired to be properly annoyed with him or confused. Her scrutiny made Darcy even more self-conscious, and he licked his lips absently, looking down. "We can just share it, I guess." Lizzie looked up at him, a speculative look in her eyes, contemplating it. She kept him waiting for a few moments but eventually nodded, releasing her grip and grabbing the spoon to separate it out. She divided it equally and then moved on to eye the remaining dishes.

Darcy was feeling hungrier than he'd anticipated; the various aromas of the dishes before him serving to revive his forgotten appetite. He picked up the lemon chicken, pouring a bit of it onto his plate as Lizzie helped herself to a generous amount of dumplings. Lizzie surveyed her almost-full plate and cast a spare glance over at Darcy's, which was a bit less loaded-down than hers and made her feel a bit fat. He was the man, after all; shouldn't he have more of an appetite than her, even if she'd more or less picked at her dinner, lost in her thoughts? "You want dumplings?" Lizzie mumbled, pushing the heavy bowl towards him.

He nodded slowly and Lizzie motioned for him to help himself. She felt a bit better seeing the way the dumplings piled onto his plate. Evidently Darcy was a fan. He also chose that moment to attempt to start a conversation. "You were helping the cook make them, weren't you?" he said, glancing up and meeting her gaze. Lizzie nodded, frowning a little, wondering what he was insinuating about her and her low-class habits and relations. She didn't have the energy to get properly defensive about it, much less on an empty stomach.

She smiled thinly, wishing suddenly for Charlotte's presence. "I usually help Charlotte, so you could say I've got experience with it," Lizzie explained with a shrug, trying to force herself not to take what he was saying the wrong way. Charlotte's rule about dumplings was that she got to help eat them if she helped make them, and Lizzie was only too happy to oblige. She was being modest; Darcy had noticed that she'd folded the dumplings with more dexterity than the cook had, laughing as she did it as if it were a race. She missed the vaguely impressed look on his face. Darcy had liked the dumplings more than he would've usually because she'd had a hand in making them. He probably would've liked anything she'd made for him (even if they'd been for everyone, not just him), even if it was burned to a crisp.

He once again attempted a smile. "They're a family recipe, actually." Her brows shot up, and she turned to face him with a questioning look. Her hand was frozen in mid-air, reaching for one of the still-full containers. Seeing her look, he stifled a chuckle. "Not my family recipe," he corrected, "It's Bing's grandmother's recipe." Lizzie looked away, wondering why Bing or Caroline hadn't made them themselves, why they'd relied on a chef to do it for them when it was a family recipe. It wasn't as if making dumplings was particularly difficult.

But then, she supposed, the rich are quite different from you and me... and as skilled as their chef was in making gourmet meals, she was hard-pressed to say his food was that much better than the homey comfort food her crazy mother cooked up. Excepting, of course, that awful cranberry jello and green bean casserole that still made Lizzie shudder at the thought of it. She'd thrown up cranberry-flavored green beans for several hours after consuming the disgusting casserole, and it had more or less put her off cranberries for life.

Darcy noticed Lizzie was making a face and wondered at it. Had she not liked his topic of (admittedly stilted) conversation? He frowned to himself, resigning himself to silence. He thought he was getting better at relaxing in her presence, at sounding and talking like a normal person... at least after sex. Mired in this slightly depressing trend of thoughts, he nearly jumped when her hand touched his. They'd gone for the Triple Delight at the same time. They both froze and looked at each other, but this time it was Lizzie who volunteered, "Let's just split it." Darcy nodded, and Lizzie once again dished it out for both of them. She then headed over to the sink, grabbing two paper towels, moistening them and then wringing them out.

He gave her a questioning look, cocking his head to the side. This was the point when Lizzie remembered that Darcy probably wasn't used to eating leftovers like herself. He probably had a chef too and didn't squeeze an order of Chinese into three or four meals, depending. Then again, he probably also wouldn't touch the sixty-nine cent soup she bought at the Russian store either. "It helps keep the moisture in," Lizzie explained somewhat ineloquently, not knowing how to properly elaborate about how the rice was crunchy when microwaved as is. Darcy got up before she could, snatching her plate and whisking it off to the microwave. Lizzie started closing the containers and putting them back in the fridge methodically.

Darcy returned just in time to throw the empty cartons into the trash. Lizzie was frowning at the silverware; typical Darcy, acting like she was uncultured just because she hadn't grown up with ridiculous, probably obscene wealth. She merely looked up at him, nonplussed, leaning on the counter. "My best friend is Asian, too, Darcy. I know how to use chopsticks," she said pointedly. He took the fork from her hand wordlessly and went to get her a set of metal chopsticks while Lizzie picked up the dirty serving utensils and set them in the dishwasher. She stopped to take her food out of the microwave, tossing the paper towel into the trash and sitting down.

He handed her the chopsticks, which she accepted almost grudgingly, and went to put his own food into the microwave. Lizzie glanced over at him, but the food smelled so good, and her hunger overpowered any manners or compunctions she might've had about eating while he was not. Darcy watched her eat, drumming his fingers on the counter, waiting for his food to be done. She ate ravenously, not caring about how she appeared or how it made her look, unlike all the society women he knew who barely ate or had little mincing bites of tiny delicate gourmet dishes. Lizzie, in contrast, had just shoved an entire dumpling into her mouth, and Darcy found it somehow strangely endearing and infinitely preferable to proper table manners.

He nearly jumped when the microwave beeped, signifying that his meal was heated up. They were, after all, trying to be quiet, as unlikely as it was that they'd run into anyone at this time of night. He turned around, carefully taking the dish out and doing as Lizzie had, sliding into the seat next to her at the bar. He took a healthy sip of his milk and dove into his food with more gusto than he expected. And if it just so happened that his arm periodically brushed against Lizzie's, he certainly didn't do anything to avoid the contact. Darcy glanced over at Lizzie, her eyes faintly closed as she savored the food. It occurred to him after a moment or two that this was a pretty great time to talk to her. It could almost be like a date, really.

Darcy cleared his throat, and Lizzie made a soft noise in her throat that sounded more like a "mm" mumbled through food. He paused, unsure of what he was actually going to say. He generally liked to plan out what he was going to say to her in advance so that he could try to anticipate her potential responses. She cracked her eyes open to give him an expectant look when the silence had dragged on a bit too long. "What do you think of Tolstoy?" he managed finally, trying not to wilt under her scrutiny. He'd seen her with one of his books earlier and had wondered about it.

Lizzie raised her brows, swallowing hard. It was a bit of a loaded question, and she wasn't in the mood for any kind of argument with him, but she also wasn't in the mood to say things to avoid potentially getting into it with him. She paused, tapping one of the cool chopsticks on her bottom lip once and then twice. "I think he's overrated. A master, sure, one of the greats, whatever... but so damn self-righteous! And don't even get me _started_ on what he said about Shakespeare!" Lizzie exclaimed, making a face. It was that smug, all-knowing paternalistic tendency of his that kind of put her off of him; his novellas were really much preferable to his novels, rich as they were. There was definitely such a thing as being too socially-conscious; ugh, what a moralistic prig.

Her enthusiasm mildly amused Darcy, who speared a dumpling. "What about Shakespeare?" he asked almost absently, bringing the dumpling up to his mouth and nibbling on it with a cautiousness that felt like almost like a rebuke to Lizzie.

She sighed, reaching for the milk. "He called Shakespeare a poor dramatist. But it's just an excuse for him not being able to enjoy him, and Tolstoy not wanting anyone else to enjoy him either." Tolstoy did not understand the bright, vivid colors of Shakespeare's work, nor did he appreciate his flair for drama or the appeal of his verse. He was rather like a petulant child who wanted to rain on everyone else's parade. The man knew about writing, certainly, but who would want to see a stuffy, moralistic play by Tolstoy when there were pleasanter playwrights out there?

Darcy nodded, slurping up his noodles in the most dignified way possible. When he'd swallowed, he turned to address her, brandishing his chopsticks. Lizzie sipped leisurely at her milk before setting it down. "But aren't you biased?" he asked, raising a brow. Lizzie backed up a little, almost affronted, her mouth full of rice. "You love Shakespeare. Weren't you saying the other night that he's your favorite playwright?" Darcy pointed out, twirling the chopsticks around his noodles. Lizzie blinked, wondering how he'd remembered that. She hadn't thought he was much paying attention since he'd been working yet again. Jane had been telling Bing and Caroline semi-embarrassing stories about her various theatrical performances. Lizzie had countered by showing pictures of the costumes Jane had designed for them which made her sister flush horribly at Bing and Caroline's totally deserved praise.

Lizzie made a noncommittal response, waving him off and going back to her food. Since when was he all of a sudden so talkative? There was no arguing with her own words, and she didn't want to speak and risk getting herself into a trap of Darcy's making. He would find a way to criticize even her love of classic literature. It was probably too mainstream for him anyway. He probably liked to read books written by antisocial hermit loners who isolated themselves from society... like Thoreau or perhaps obscure anonymous poets who only published something twice a year. Maybe boring postmodernist tomes like the unreadable _Gravity's Rainbow_ or anything by William S. Burroughs. She thought these things despite actually knowing that his literary tastes were, as far as she actually knew, much in line with her own.

She compensated by shoving a big, fat dumpling into her mouth, hoping he'd take a hint. However, a lack of a response did not deter Darcy, who was determined to talk to her now. He'd found that it was easier to talk to her after having sex, though she didn't much care for post-coital conversation. "What do you think of poetry?" he asked a moment or so later.

Lizzie looked over at him, raising her brows. She made sure to chew very slowly, slower than she thought she could manage, even with her mouth stuffed choking-full of dumpling. Darcy raised his own brows, giving her an expectant look. He rested an elbow on the counter, resting his chin on his hand and turning in towards her, his food temporarily forgotten. Realizing she wasn't about to dodge the question entirely, Lizzie suppressed a sigh and swallowed for as long as she possibly could. "Isn't that a loaded question?" she replied, wiping her mouth with the back of her arm. A tiny part of her hoped the classless gesture would repulse him, but he only tilted his head a bit more. His lips twitched a bit, almost into a smile.

She stifled another sigh and frowned, considering her words carefully. She was used to doing this around Darcy in order to suppress her hardly-becoming hatred. "Poetry is an art form, I will grant you..." she said, watching his reaction carefully. Sometimes she liked to say things just to see how Darcy would react... not unlike the man himself, actually. She figured he'd disapprove anyway, so she might as well be as extreme as possible to elicit the full reaction. She paused for a moment, almost smiling and a bit too aware that Darcy would probably agree with what she had to say, "but few people nowadays have the capability to appreciate it, much less truly understand it. It's a nicer idea than it is in practice."

Lizzie was a bit surprised at his reaction, actually. His brow furrowed up a bit, and he looked away, glancing at his plate before pushing it aside. Lizzie half-shrugged to herself and started heaping rice into her mouth, waiting for him to talk. Darcy pursed his lips, opening and closing his mouth more than once, wondering what to articulate. After several moments of this, while Lizzie was nosing around her rice, Darcy cleared his throat. Her eyes shot up to meet his, the expression on her face almost guilty. "I thought women liked poetry more." Lizzie's brows shot up, and she gave him a piercing look that made him feel very uncomfortable. "Isn't poetry the fruit of love?" he stammered after a moment or so of this.

She snorted loudly and almost choked on her food. Concern briefly flickered in Darcy's eyes, one of those large hands finding her back and patting it. Lizzie coughed and reached for her milk, taking a sip. It didn't help perhaps as much as water would've, but her throat felt better. Once she blinked away the moisture in her eyes, she looked up at him shrewdly, setting her fork down. "Isn't all writing the fruit of love or money?" she rejoined. Darcy opened his mouth as if to say something, but Lizzie beat him to it. "As far as I'm concerned, there's no better way to drive away love! Nothing like a sonnet to scare a girl senseless and expose its writer to ridicule!" Lizzie continued with a laugh.

His brow furrowed more deeply at this. As always, this was said with the utmost conviction. He was the first to admit that he did not yet know her well enough to understand which opinions were really her own and which ones she merely pretended to have. He wanted to, though. "I... I have never heard that before," he said stiffly, "I always thought poetry encouraged romantic feelings." He looked away, wondering why he'd brought up poetry, a subject he was comparatively poorly versed in and one she did not seem to enjoy. He'd been certain he'd heard her mention it before in more positive terms. What was he trying to do here?

Lizzie stifled another snort, throwing her wrist in front of her nose and mouth. Maybe in the 1800s, Darce, she thought sarcastically. She cocked her head to the side and looked at him incredulously for a moment. Her expressive eyes were wide, silently asking him if he was serious... but, then again, when was he not? He was the most uptight person she knew, and the closest he'd ever come to a joke was snarking about other people. She leaned forward a bit, resting her free hand on the table and bringing her wrist away from her mouth, swaying just a little.

Darcy watched her silently, mesmerized by the glittering flecks of green and gray in her eyes and the wispy strands of dark cherry hair that escaped her bun and floated around her face. He almost reached out to steady her, though his hand was still on her back. She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with his hand on her back, twisting just enough so that he'd be forced to drop his hand. He did, and his face was an impassive mask once more, as opposed to a slightly more open and pleasantly neutral expression. Darcy turned back to his food, his eyes briefly flicking up at her as he brought the fork to his lips.

"Come on, Darcy," she quipped, elbowing him lightly and making a face at him, "how many modern men use poetry to try and win a girl over?" She gazed at him as if defying him to mention a few, though her tone made it plain that she thought such attempts would have little success, if any. Most people couldn't even name more than one or two modern, living poets... unless lyricists counted. Darcy half-shrugged a single shoulder. Just because he couldn't think of one did not mean that such a man did not exist. Ugh, she was twisting him up so badly that he was thinking in triple-negatives _and_ sentence fragments. "And what girl would fall for that?" she asked a bit later, talking more to herself than him.

His lips formed a tight line. Why was she so opposed to poetry? He leaned in towards her, carefully setting his fork down. He was pleased when she didn't move away, though that was perhaps because she was too distracted trying to capture one particularly slippery shrimp with her chopsticks to notice. "Are you saying that even the _great_ William Shakespeare, your _favorite_, wouldn't be able to woo a woman these days?" he asked ironically, taking care to emphasize those two words and hating that he was just the slightest bit jealous of Shakespeare's ability to write words that Lizzie enjoyed.

To Lizzie, however, his tone was full of disdain, disdain for her opinion she hoped (him potentially sharing Tolstoy's pretentious opinion on Shakespeare was a dealbreaker). Lizzie ate the shrimp, swallowed, and glanced back up at him. She scooped up more food and shrugged. "That depends entirely on the woman." Darcy lifted his jaw off of his hand, regarding her in a new light she was mostly uncomfortable with. She flushed a little under his scrutiny, trying not to think of how successful Shakespeare might've been in securing her affections. "And, besides, Shakespeare's in a class all his own..."

He raised a brow, intending to ask her about what she thought of other poets of a similar caliber, but he thought the better of it. "Your average would-be suitor is not Shakespeare," Lizzie added a moment later, her expression a bit more serious and less dreamy. Darcy wondered why that felt like a pointed rebuke; perhaps it was just his own failings with words that made him all the more envious of those who could express themselves more easily. Those who said what they meant. "A bad sonnet will drive away love sooner than a few poorly-chosen words," she declared rather boldly. Darcy almost started at this, trying not to allow himself to grow too hopeful.

Lizzie was giving him that strange, piercing look, so he averted his gaze and started playing with his food. He hoped it would give him a less studied air, that it would make it seem like he wasn't pathetically hanging on her every word, reading into everything to know what pleased her. Lizzie scrunched her face up, stabbing at another piece of shrimp. "It forces the wannabe writer to actually consider his subject, which naturally leads to the realization that he knows very little about the person he's supposedly writing about. And then he looks at his life and asks himself what the hell he thinks he's doing, writing a love poem about someone he barely knows. And that's that," Lizzie continued, making a hand-wiping gesture and starting back in on her food.

Darcy blinked, processing this. He frowned a little, watching her bent over her food. He wondered how she'd become so cynical, so unromantic. She was almost as apt to think the worst as he was. Of course, he would never have written poetry anyway, and he suspected any of the poems he had memorized by heart wouldn't be delivered quite properly. He couldn't think of a single verse that would suit her, really. "I never took you for a cynic," he remarked quietly before slurping down more noodles.

She snorted, rubbing the back of her neck absently. What did Darcy really know about her, to take her for anything? "Let's just say I've received more than my fair share of bad love poetry from would-be Romeos," she replied with a thin smile. Poems of admiration written by women-starved men at creative-writing camp. She'd been nothing more than an object for their desire, just that and nothing more. Certainly not a real person with real feelings. Some poems gave her brown hair, others red, others auburn. In some poems her eyes were sky blue or emerald green or slate-colored or hazel with flecks of all the colors, whatever was easiest for them to make up because they hadn't actually looked her in the eyes or taken care to notice much about her.

No, their poems weren't really about _her_, more about the feelings she inspired in _them_, and ultimately, themselves, what they'd projected onto her of their ideal woman. They'd manufactured a personality on a slim factual-basis, wrote a script of how their encounters had gone that could scarcely be further from the truth. And, in the end, as with the others, they eventually gave up once they realized who she really was, that she wasn't their perfect Barbie Dream Girl, or that she was impervious to their charms, and then they moved on to a new target, just like that. It had all made for a very timely Valentine's Day documentary project with Charlotte.

Darcy's litany was only different in that it was overt and articulated. Which, she supposed, she should appreciate. She knew ahead of time not to get her hopes up or caught up in things... not as if there was any risk of that with Darcy, but still. Lizzie shook her head as if to free it of these thoughts and turned back to her food. It was a wonder she could think at all by this point.

The man himself was eating quietly, casting glances at her from his peripheral vision in a way he thought was subtle. He bit back the questions he wanted to ask—_how many?_ chief among them. Had any of them been successful, even for moments, or was her heart really as untouched and unmoved as she made it seem? He swallowed and reached over to grab his drink, his throat a bit drier than he liked. "It doesn't sound like any of them knew you well," he remarked, hoping it came out more casually than he felt it. He hurriedly took a sip of his milk, afraid to say more. Lizzie offered him a somewhat-lazy self-deprecating smile.

"You'd be surprised how many man who say they're in love don't really know the woman they think they've fallen for," she said wryly, making a face as she took a sip of her own drink. It was not an ideal combination. She said nothing further, however, and Darcy relaxed a little. Though, as he reminded himself, it wasn't as if he knew her much better. That bothered him more than he cared to let on, and of course he didn't dare let that on. It would be wrong to get Lizzie's hopes up for something that could never become serious or materialize into something lasting. She shrugged a shoulder, and one of the straps started to tumble down her shoulder. "Such feelings are easily overcome."

Darcy arched a brow, mildly startled and somewhat alarmed at how deep her cynicism ran, but it wasn't his place to comment. Lizzie met his questioning gaze, her darkening expression softening a bit. She scolded herself for sounding even remotely bitter around Darcy. She didn't want him thinking she wanted anything more from him. "I guess I'm saying a modern woman values deeds over pretty words. Because, ultimately, poetry is just a lot of very pretty words... and pretty words are empty without conviction behind them." It was very easy, all too easy, to say things you didn't mean, Lizzie thought with a frown. Like the boys before him who'd told her things and then turned around and told her something different. She'd had enough of believing them, of trusting that others felt the same because it seemed that way.

Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she closed her eyes briefly, casting the painful, half-forgotten memories of college mistakes away. Reminders of why she was cautious with her heart and had no male friends. Opening her eyes, she exhaled and added, quietly yet resolutely, "It's what you do and the intentions behind it that really matter." Darcy's lips quirked up into a small approximation of a smile. It was a blink-and-you'll-miss-it kind of phenomenon, and Lizzie wasn't looking. He admired how similarly their minds worked sometimes, unaware of how different Lizzie thought they were.

They ate together in companionable silence. Lizzie was more focused on filling her stomach than much of anything else, but Darcy continued sneaking glances over at her frequently enough to distract him from his food considerably.

When they finished, Darcy took both of their dishes and chopsticks over to the dishwasher. Lizzie leaned over the counter a bit to admire his ass as he bent down to load the machine. When she realized what she was doing, she froze and shook her head. Her brain was clearly addled from a lack of sleep. She didn't need to ogle Darcy's very-covered-ass from over a kitchen counter as if she didn't know full well what it looked like, as if she hadn't seen him naked well over a dozen times already. She let out a breath and rose to her feet somewhat unsteadily, feeling exceptionally warm, full, and sleepy. She hadn't felt this content for quite some time, but, really, she could think of no complaints but that she wasn't already lying in her bed.

Darcy saw her eyelids flutter a bit and noticed her unsteadiness on her feet, and he reached out to steady her as he rounded the island. Lizzie looked up at him wearily, leaning on the edge of the counter. She didn't push him away as she would've earlier, partly out of benevolence and partly out of exhaustion. Darcy noticed this and smiled a bit to himself. He didn't let go of her as he should have, even though she straightened and looked up at him with slightly less bleary eyes, making it clear that she didn't need his bracing presence. He was too busy wracking his brain for an excuse to prolong their time together.

These few moments with her in the middle of the night, well, it was almost like a proper date. He would've preferred a bit more conversation, but it was three in the morning, so he could let that slide. Getting an idea, Darcy cleared his throat awkwardly. "Would you want to maybe watch a movie?" he asked anxiously, stretching up to his full height and twisting his robe in his free hand.

Caroline Lee had come down for a glass of water or something, but she hadn't expected to find Darcy down here. He did at times have trouble sleeping, but he rarely indulged in midnight snacks or anything of the sort. She drew closer at the sound of his voice, stopping when she realized he was addressing someone else. She didn't have to look to know who that person was. Darcy's awkward, clumsy, schoolboy-hopeful tone said it all. So when she peered around the corner for purely reasons of scientific curiosity, as Bing would say, she was not at all surprised to find him and Lizzie Bennet both in the kitchen.

She was, however, surprised to see that Darcy's hand was resting on Lizzie's arm... or, more specifically, that Lizzie Bennet was _letting_ Darcy touch her and not putting up a fight. Had all of Caroline's efforts to drive a wedge between them somehow gone awry and produced the exact opposite result? She was too astonished to properly fume. Darcy's cursedly-tall, broad-shouldered body blocked most of the petite brunette from view, but Caroline noted with a hint of triumph that, from what she could tell, Lizzie looked tired. Unfortunately, she also saw just how little clothing the other woman was wearing and that it certainly hadn't escaped Darcy's notice.

Caroline's pretty face contorted into a scowl, but she determined it was ultimately prudent to wait and watch to see what happened. Even though every fiber of her being was calling for her to just walk in and ruin whatever strange moment they were having. She needed to assess what was going on and why they were standing so very close in order to determine her next move. Clearly her efforts to drive them apart were not going as well as anticipated.

Lizzie blinked, having not expected his question. Darcy released his robe and gestured a bit helplessly towards the lounge, his other hand still on her arm. Lizzie's brow furrowed as she momentarily contemplated it. "We don't like the same kinds of movies, Darcy," she mumbled almost pityingly, shaking her head slowly. The hopeful look started to slide off Darcy's face, but he opened his mouth to say something to counter her or make some kind of excuse anyway. Naturally, Lizzie didn't notice and didn't let him get around to it. "Besides, it's after three in the morning. Don't you have to work tomorrow?" she remarked pointedly after glancing at the clock, shifting her weight.

His face fell even more, although he could acknowledge on the one level that everything Lizzie was saying was perfectly logical—a bit too logical, since she sounded like the voice in his head telling him that all of this was a bad idea. Caroline tried not to smile; maybe she'd been wrong, a bit too hasty in her judgment. Yes, here was Darcy reaching out to Lizzie in the way she could only _wish _he would to her, but she was rejecting him with arguments whose sense even Darcy could not debate. Lizzie was doing her work for her! He hung his head a little, properly chastened. Darcy suppressed a sigh, and Lizzie let out a loud yawn, reaching up to cover her mouth, her eyes meeting his briefly in embarrassment. "I'm exhausted. I have _no_ idea how your eyes are even open right now," Lizzie murmured, shaking her head in disbelief a bit slower than usual.

Darcy couldn't help but smirk a little, knowing he was, at least partially, the cause of her fatigue. Her tired indigo eyes met his, and she let out an undignified snort, evidently reading his mind. They'd gone three long, drawn-out rounds earlier in her bedroom, until they'd both been boneless and incapable of moving for a solid thirty minutes afterwards. His own body was pleasantly sore from the exercise. She reached up and smoothed his messy hair absently; he hadn't had the heart to fix it when he was in his room redressing, not when it was the product of her hands. He thought he heard her mumble something about stamina and wearing her out, but he couldn't be sure. His expression softened, but Lizzie didn't see it.

Caroline frowned, silently seething with jealousy. Since when did Lizzie touch Darcy willingly and unnecessarily? Caroline had, of course, touched Darcy and his hair before herself, but he'd never relaxed infinitesimally or leaned into her touch the way he did with Lizzie without even thinking about it. It was also strange that Darcy's hair was tousled in the first place; he tended to be meticulous about his appearance. Caroline curled her fingers around the door frame until her knuckles were white. She did not want to be _jealous_ of Lizzie Bennet, of all people! Lizzie and her family were so far beneath all of them that it was simply unfathomable that she should pose any sort of threat... so why were her brother and Darcy so infatuated with the Bennet sisters, even with all these points against them?

Lizzie put a hand over her mouth as she yawned again, blinking more than usual. "Thanks for the offer, Darce, but... I think I'm gonna head to bed now," she said sleepily, sliding past him and heading back the way she'd come. It was a bit careless, nicer than she would've usually been because she was satisfied in nearly every sense of the word and her bed was calling to her. She patted him once on the shoulder distractedly before she turned to go, missing the way his whole body deflated when she turned her back.

The ever-discerning Caroline, however, did not. Nor, for that matter, did she miss Lizzie's sudden casualness, the way she seemed oddly at ease with Darcy. In fact, they both seemed more relaxed around each other than she could ever remember seeing them. This was not the way it was supposed to go. Darcy let out a deep breath, turning to the side so that she could see the powerful emotion flicker across his profile before he closed his eyes and was restrained once again. Then, surprisingly, Darcy pushed off from the counter and went after Lizzie. Caroline peered into the kitchen, craning her neck in an attempt to see them. She couldn't even tell if Darcy had followed her, let alone stopped her as he'd evidently intended.

As it was, Darcy had cornered Lizzie just out of sight, pinning her up between the door frame and the cabinets, glad for the darkness to camouflage them. She blinked, gazing up at him, evidently quite puzzled. Her eyes were a cloudy cyan and a bit bloodshot. And suddenly, whatever he'd been wanting to say to her, to use to entreat her to stay, had flown out of his head. All that was left was the consuming desire to kiss her, right here and now, damn the consequences. So he leaned forward and crushed his lips against hers.

"Mmm." Lizzie responded minimally, reaching out to push him back. He moved to his favorite part of her: her neck, and Lizzie's breath hitched, eyelids fluttering. She grunted involuntarily, and then, after a moment, her eyes shot open. "Not here," she hissed, suddenly quite a bit more awake, the blood pumping a furious beat in her veins. Darcy's eyes widened a little, and he pulled back, not quite smiling but almost there. How could he not be when his arms were full of such a vision as sleepy, satisfied Lizzie with her beautiful blue eyes hazy and heavy-lidded?

She knew what he was thinking, and she couldn't help but glance around them, paranoid that someone would walk in on the tableau and see them standing far, far too close to each other. "Anyone could see us!" She couldn't help but frown at the note of panic in her voice. He was breaking the cardinal rule of their arrangement, the unspoken agreement that all of this should go on behind closed doors rather than out in the open, where they were... exposed in more ways than one. A somewhat skeptical Darcy raised a brow; he just wanted to kiss her again. He opened his mouth to implore her or remind her that no one else was up, but she carefully pulled away, barely even glancing at Darcy.

"Don't bother trying to change my mind." Darcy's eyes widened a little. Sleep had made Lizzie's lips a bit more slack; she hadn't meant for it to sound so harsh. She sighed softly, closing her eyes once more as she reached out blindly to push him even farther back, startling him a bit. "Even if I had the desire or energy to do it again, I'd still probably fall asleep before you got me even halfway undressed," a weary Lizzie mumbled so quietly that Darcy had to lean in to hear her. He frowned, eying her attire and wondering if that was a challenge. She wasn't exactly wearing much clothing, after all, and he was certainly willing to give it his best shot. He briefly contemplated the wild notion of starting to undress her in the kitchen.

Then her eyes flicked open, and she regarded him with a relatively cool but pointed look. "_Goodnight, _Darcy," she whispered, jerking out of his reach, cruel as ever. Her voice was firm with an undercurrent of steel, but, more importantly, it was telling him _not_ to follow her. However, she still had to pass by him to leave. Sensing he wasn't about to let her go, she let out a breath that Darcy felt on his face, over his skin. Then she pitched forward on her tiptoes just enough to press a short kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Truthfully, her lips were half on his cheek and half on his lips, likely because she was too sloppy to notice rather than her being scheming or affectionate. She'd meant to kiss him on the cheek but had gotten a bit too close and uncoordinated due to her sleepiness. But Darcy was free to pretend whatever he wanted, to make up whatever excuse satisfied him, and that is what he did as she slipped out of his path, barely brushing past him, headed for the stairs. He watched her go, her legs sturdier than his, hearing her bare feet pad across Bing's parquet floor. He hated himself just a little for wishing he could follow her, that it was his place to go back to her bed and sleep there, with her.

Despite its comfort and luxury, the prospect of his big, cold, and empty bed was no longer even a remotely appealing prospect. He'd rather be cramped in Lizzie's bed, tangled up in her, than alone in his own. The thought should've sobered him, but he too was fairly exhausted. It was all he could do to head back over to the counter and lean against it, looking a bit forlorn. He'd forgotten how much he missed having someone around and how tired he'd grown of just being alone all the time.

It was strange to think it but he was beginning to realize just how much he needed this, whatever it was, with her. It almost made him feel like himself again, or, at least, a happier person in his own skin. He'd forgotten what that felt like too.

Caroline, of course, saw this, and saw it as her opening. She stifled a scoff at the look on his face; he was getting awfully wrapped up in some small-town nobody. It was actually rather ridiculous that some little insignificant slip of a thing like Lizzie Bennet could leave someone of Darcy's consequence looking so slighted, especially when there were many girls and women across America who would give their right arm to get him to look at them that way. Caroline tried her best to put these thoughts out of her head and walked more or less silently toward him.

"I bet I know what you're thinking about," she trilled knowingly. His eyes shot open. Darcy nearly jumped out of his skin, startled out of his far more pleasant daydreams. He scowled, wishing she wore bells or otherwise announced her presence. He was not in the mood for her needling or teasing tonight, and there was nothing like Caroline Lee to ruin a good mood. She strolled up to him, standing too close as usual and wearing that predatory smile of hers. "Lizzie Bennet," she pronounced smugly. The whole thing was tiresome; he felt like they'd already had this conversation ten times over.

Darcy didn't challenge her, not seeing the point, especially since she'd been right. Saying something ironic and confirming her thoughts with a "Gold star, Caroline" would've been amusing on a certain level. He knew it would bother her more, him not saying anything and all but admitting that Lizzie Bennet was on his mind. As he'd expected, Caroline didn't smile; he'd robbed her of that tiny victory. She wasn't happy to be right about this. For his part, Darcy was back to being bored again. He'd rather be alone in his room thinking about Lizzie than here with Caroline talking about her. Dealing with Caroline rarely amused him in general; he supposed sometimes that her company was preferable to none at all. He would occasionally try to like and tolerate her more than he really did (he was not deaf to his aunt's less-than-subtle insinuations), but it gave him no measurable pleasure. He felt very little for her.

Caroline suppressed a sigh; sometimes she thought she had Darcy completely figured out, but then he would go silent and she would question everything. He could be so cold but also so warm, when he felt like it. The way he was when he devoted his full attention and intensity to something almost made her shiver to think of it. There was something about that intensity that was so attractive to her, maybe because it reminded her of herself. Darcy usually applied that single-minded focus and drive to work, to getting what he wanted, but Caroline could imagine what it was like to have even a fraction of it. "I was reflecting on her eyes," he replied after some time, proceeding to surrender to those thoughts.

Caroline made a look of displeasure that Darcy didn't see. He was too busy staring willingly into space away from her as if trying to will Lizzie Bennet back into touching distance. Caroline very nearly gagged at the cheesiness of it all. Feelings were not only making Darcy a sap; they were making him a _cliché_ who went on about beautiful, sparkly, shiny, life-filled, lively, bright, fine, jewel-toned eyes. She hated to see him like this, reduced to such petty sentiments, much less bestowing his unrequited and intense affections on such an unworthy object. "Come on, Darcy. You really expect me to believe that she was here in her barely-there little pajamas, and you were thinking about her _eyes_?" she snorted, giving him a disbelieving look. It was meant to be skeptical at first, but she honestly couldn't believe it. "Even you're not that much of a prude," she added a bit more harshly, fixing him with a knowing look, crossing an arm over her chest.

She did this in part to accentuate her bust, but Darcy's gaze did not waver. He turned abruptly to glower at her, his spine stiffening as he turned. He'd taken offense at it, of course; what would Caroline know about that anyway? He hated how she presumed to know so much about him when she had no real concept of what truly mattered to him. Everything with that man and Gigi and this summer was opening his eyes and making him start to reevaluate some of his long-held assumptions about what was important and what he really wanted.

Caroline's presumption wasn't too far from the truth, but he disliked her accusing him of ungentlemanly thoughts. It wasn't like Lizzie was a random girl or that he didn't have reason, that he wasn't entitled to think of her that way after having sex with her three times that night. "Actually, I _was_," he corrected primly. "Her eyes are, by far," he continued, partly to spite her and partly because he was irritated, "her most arousing feature." He lingered over that word, "arousing" for a second, letting it roll on his tongue. Of course, he regretted it almost as soon as he said it, but it gave him a frisson of satisfaction.

He wasn't lying, either; Lizzie's eyes were remarkable and easily his favorite thing about her, the one thing about her that stuck in his mind more than anything. The rich royal blue, darker around the irises than at the edges, that was, at times, gray, or other times a deeper green. It was like the flecks of green in her eyes, lurking there under the blue, commingling with the sapphire, had come to the surface, had blossomed. The color changed in the light or depending on what she wore and gave him countless opportunities to watch the way they changed when she laughed, smiled, or when he kissed her, buried himself inside of her. He had never seen their equal.

Caroline's eyes shot up to meet his, widening. She sputtered, unable to speak. Had Darcy actually just said that? With that mild innuendo? His voice deepened on the one word, but his face was as impassive as ever. She scanned his face for an answer, trying to see how he felt, if he'd meant it that way. Ordinarily Caroline could read Darcy almost better than anyone, except, of course, Gigi, but he could shut down completely when he wanted to. Darcy stubbornly did not redden or relent; he refused to be ashamed of what he'd just told her, mildly enjoying her alarm.

She raised her brows and moved towards him, resting her hip against the counter. "Arousing, you say?" she asked, mimicking his tone and the way he'd lingered over the word. Caroline snickered, tapping her pretty, freshly-manicured nails on the counter. Darcy's jaw tensed a bit at the continuous sound. "Sounds like somebody was having a naughty dream about her!" she teased, her dark eyes glittering wickedly. Teasing Darcy and making him feel self-conscious and uncomfortable about his little crush was the best way to discourage him. It was her privilege as his friend, after all, to speak her mind with him.

Darcy remained as stiffly placid as possible, though his demeanor belied his irritation. It was a kind of forced calm, the kind that could only be the product of prodigious self-control. He neither denied it nor shifted guiltily. Darcy tried not to smirk at the fact that he didn't have to imagine, that he couldn't just have her in his dreams... that it was reality. That was the best part, that she was all his behind their backs. He almost smiled, thinking of Caroline's doubtlessly priceless reaction. Though it would be amusing, she would jump to the wrong kind of conclusions and make everything needlessly awkward when it had been going so well. The last thing he wanted was further complication.

Her eyes narrowed; Darcy was being surprisingly calm and quiet about all of it, and it was making Caroline a bit alarmed. He was normally a taciturn man, yes, but he could be trusted to speak his mind when he had an opinion as even the myopic Lizzie had noticed. His lack of an opinion on the thing he had for the redhead was worrisome because it could mean that he was considering things... and the last thing she wanted was Darcy confessing when Lizzie seemed to be warming to him. Disappointed at his lack of reaction, a finger to her lip, she continued rounding the island to approach him. There was something distinctly feline and predatory about the way she moved.

She sashayed towards him like the beauty queen she might've been in another life, pursing her lips. "Now, who should I tell first?" she drawled, tapping her bottom lip absently. She paused for a moment, her gaze briefly flicking up to his, her lips curling upwards at the corners like the cat who'd gotten the canary. She stood in front of him tall, proud, and more than a little smug and self-satisfied. Caroline was already thinking about things to say to Lizzie to distance them, planning ahead how she was going to twist and manipulate things. "Lizzie, the woman of the hour herself..."

He was fully aware that her bluff was just that, that she wouldn't do that to him (or herself), and shot her an irritated look at even mentioning the possibility. "Or perhaps sweet, innocent, _trusting_ Jane," she continued mockingly, pausing a beat too long. Darcy's eyes darkened. He knew she wouldn't tell Jane either, even if she could get the woman away from Bing for long enough to speak to her properly. "-O-o-or," Caroline continued, drawing out the word, "that mother of theirs." Though Darcy generally agreed with Caroline about Mrs. Bennet, the disdain in which she'd spat the word "mother" made him uncomfortable. She smirked to herself at the joke, pleased at the way Darcy had paled and was visibly repressing a shudder.

Caroline very nearly laughed but held it back, continuing to drive her point home. She took a breath and composed herself before deadpanning, "Yes, I'm sure Mrs. Bennet will be delighted to hear that Bing Lee's handsomer and wealthier friend is_infatuated_ with her desperate and pathetically single middle daughter." If she'd thought she could've managed it, she would've attempted Lizzie's mother's infamous Southern accent. Darcy paled further at the thought, an expression of distaste appearing on his face. Caroline perked up a bit, trying to suppress her enjoyment of this moment. She did not entirely succeed, and it was not a good look on her.

Darcy drew himself up to his full height, staring her down and pushing away from the counter. "You're not the only one who knows things I'd prefer not to share, Caroline. In fact, I'm _sure_ there are things you've done that Bing would be quite interested to hear about," Darcy said pointedly, crossing his arms over his chest. He raised his brows as if in challenge. "New Year's? 2009?" Caroline paled, and Darcy relished seeing her a little bit discomposed. He often envied her unflappability and occasional falsehood, betraying as it did a subterfuge he didn't have.

She'd gotten spectacularly falling-down drunk and, predictably, had called ever-reliable DD-Darcy (one of his college nicknames that had stuck) to pick her up. He had done so without complaint, though it was quite late and he much preferred staying up all night and watching movies with Gigi to going to parties and picking up silly drunk girls who had crushes on him. He had done so partly because Caroline was a friend but more out of an obligation to her brother. He didn't want Bing to have to know what it was to worry about where his sister was. Not that he had known that then.

Darcy was hardly the type to hold favors over anyone's head, but the only reason he hadn't told her brother was because she'd actually _begged_ him not to. As a brother, he understood her not wanting to have her brother disappointed in her, to not appear somehow tarnished in his eyes, especially since she and Bing were closer than most siblings and shared almost everything. Out of further respect for Bing and partly a desire to forget it had ever occurred, he'd neglected to mention the way a drunken Caroline had all but thrown herself at him like she was no better than Lizzie's energetic little sister. In a way, he had to hand it to Lydia; her advances were likely never rejected... after all, it seemed no man in this godforsaken small town could resist the Bennet sisters, much to Darcy's annoyance. She always had to seize the day.

Caroline had a very vague remembrance of all this but pretended she didn't. She remembered kissing Darcy, of course, as she always did (though they had only kissed one or two other times, once when he was drunk and once under the mistletoe). For his part, though Darcy would deny it until the end of time, he lived with the shameful reminder that he had kissed Caroline back for a few seconds. It was one of his more extreme attempts to get himself to feel something for her beyond friendship, respect, and an appreciation for her wit and unqualified support. Sometimes he took his aunt's suggestions a bit too deeply to heart, but she was all the family left, his only mother figure for years, and he wanted to please her and the rest of the family.

But no matter how hard he tried or how much he wanted to love her, the socially-appropriate and acceptable model of womanly perfection (or so he'd thought once upon a time), he could never make himself feel anything romantic towards Caroline. Even though she was one of the more beautiful women he knew, what feelings he had for her, even lustful feelings, weren't even a sliver of what he felt for Lizzie at any given moment. The veils were starting to fall from his eyes; he could no longer overlook her lack of charity and insincerity. He could not fail to see how vain she could be, how caught up in appearances and her selfish needs she was. Nor could he miss the way she seemed to encourage his worst impulses. And he couldn't stop questioning her intentions and what she really wanted, not when she was so coy.

So he'd kissed her for a few moments, and he'd felt nothing and pushed her away and pretended to forget about it. He'd taken her to his place, set her up in one of the many spare bedrooms, and put a trashcan next to her head, all unsentimentally. He'd left a bottle of aspirin and a bottle of water by her bedside as an afterthought and left instructions for one of his maids to check in on her in the morning. Even despite this, she'd stayed awake for quite some time after, drunk-texting him to his growing irritation.

Though surprised (and a little turned on) at Darcy's sudden blackmail, though of course he would never call it such, Caroline stood her ground. She raised her brows, wondering if he was bluffing. It wasn't like him to lie, but, then, such disclosure wasn't like him either. Either way, she wasn't about to call him on it. She took a step towards him, smiling sweetly. "Lizzie's great and everything, but... you're not _really _serious about her. If you were, you would've told her already how pretty you think she is."

Darcy's eyes narrowed. He'd said quite a bit more about Lizzie, and they both knew it. Caroline was trying not to roll her eyes; playing the supportive friend while he talked her ear off (as much as Darcy could, anyway) about Lizzie Bennet's dubious virtues was slowly driving her insane. She was only able to tolerate it through simultaneously amusing herself with the irony of encouraging Lizzie to hate him more. Lizzie was a fine summer friend, tolerable company when everyone else was occupied, but that was it. Caroline moved in closer, tilting her head to the side and looking up at him. She was close enough to touch him, but she knew he'd move away if she did.

She laughed, straining her neck a bit to look up into his eyes. "Besides, there's really no point in pursuing it anyway." Darcy frowned, and Caroline went on, shrugging a shoulder. His silence on the subject was increasingly worrying her, but she didn't let it show. "It's not like it could go anywhere. A summer fling is all it could be," Caroline said airily. Darcy's frown deepened. She spoke with such authority on a subject she knew nothing about, shooting him almost pitying looks. Caroline paused a moment, her eyes shaded. "Like Bing and Jane." Darcy's brows went up a little in surprise. She had _seen_ Bing and Jane together, hadn't she?They seemed to be getting pretty serious; the man had invited her to stay, after all, and had personally cared for her when she was ill. Of course, Bing would probably do these things for almost anyone, but his level of interest in Jane could not be mistaken.

Caroline's expression turned more serious, sympathetic. "It'd be cruel to get her hopes up, after all. You two are from such different worlds," she cooed, watching him carefully. She wasn't saying anything Darcy himself hadn't already thought more than he would care to admit, but it set him on edge a little. "After this summer, we'll probably never see her again... It's probably best not to get involved so late. I mean, you wouldn't want to make things awkward for Bing and Jane, now, would you?" Caroline suggested. She knew Darcy would appreciate her reasoning; he hated wasting time or pursuing things that couldn't, ultimately, go anywhere.

Darcy raised a brow, giving her a look. When had he ever cared about making social situations awkward? Though in retrospect he could admit that Caroline's considerations were good ones and chief among the reasons why he and Lizzie kept their relationship secret, he disliked her unspoken presumption that a real relationship between himself and Lizzie would end badly and messily. He was _not_ that inept at dating or that unable to control his emotions and behave civilly. That being said, he didn't let himself think long about getting involved with Lizzie in the way Caroline meant. It wouldn't do to be too comfortable with the idea.

He cleared his throat, answering a bit more curtly than he perhaps should've. "Your points are all good, Caroline," he began, meeting her gaze briefly. It was hard to overlook how involved she was in his love life, even though she'd been nothing but helpful. While she hadn't exactly encouraged him in his feelings for Lizzie, much less doing something stupid like telling her, she had said nothing to give him the impression that Lizzie would be adverse to the idea. She'd listened patiently, though her smile was a bit more brittle than usual, and said encouraging things about Lizzie, a few backhanded compliments. She'd complimented him, said Lizzie would be lucky to have him if she was really what he wanted. She told him how to talk to her, slyly mentioned little things the other woman liked, and that was all fine. Caroline had teased him quite a bit more than he was comfortable with, reminding him of Lizzie's ill-mannered mother and younger sister whenever he chanced to forget them.

Caroline smiled at this, perking up a bit, anticipating a further positive response, like him acknowledging she was right. As was his wont, though, he disappointed her. "I'll definitely consider them." Darcy wanted to say more, knew he should probably thank her for her help or something, but he thought it was best not to. Most of what he wanted to say to her involved telling her to stop presuming she knew his mind and his heart better than he did. He wanted to tell her to stop talking about things she knew little about, to tell her that it was private. Since that wasn't polite and he did generally agree with her, he left it at that.

Masking her surprise, Caroline's smile froze on her face. "You're not really considering it... are you, William?" she asked a bit hastily, reaching out to put a hand on his arm. He tensed, and his jaw tightened further. If he were a nutcracker, he could've cracked walnuts. She rarely, if ever, called him by his first name; no one really did anymore, except his sister and aunt. He almost forgot it was his name some days. Caroline blinked and laughed nervously, flipping her hair. "I mean, it's just... you're so different. You barely know her. And the timing!" she continued, growing increasingly flustered. Caroline took a breath, smoothing back some hair, and Darcy jerked away from her.

Her practiced smile fell a little, giving way to concern. She almost reached for him again but stopped before connecting with his sleeve, looking down, chastened. "I'm just saying you should sleep on it before... getting ahead of yourself." Darcy's eyes flashed warningly, but Caroline leaned forward. "I mean, can you really see someone as... _spirited... _as Lizzie on your arm at a charity event?" She tried not to make a face as she said it, but Lizzie wasn't docile or the type to keep her mouth closed. She lacked subtlety and finesse and, sometimes, tact. "Do you think she would fit in... that she would feel comfortable?" she asked, giving him a skeptical look, the doubt heavy in her voice. Caroline tried her best to make it sound like she was saying it for Lizzie's sake too. He was silent; he knew the answer to that question.

Sensing a potential victory, Caroline reached up and put her hand on his shoulder, smiling up at him insincerely. "I'm not saying that she isn't charming and compelling, but she's hardly got her life in order..." she added, giving him yet another look. Her use of the word "order" was intentional, and she was rewarded with a frown and wrinkles. She'd wanted to say immature but couldn't think of a suitable euphemism. Barely able to suppress her glee, Caroline patted Darcy on the shoulder soothingly. She did her best, though, at furrowing her brow with just the appropriate amount of concern, pouting her lips just a little so that Darcy would know she was amenable to comforting him if he needed her. "She isn't what you need right now," Caroline murmured knowingly, idly massaging his shoulder.

Darcy didn't say anything. She was more right in some ways than he'd like to admit. He rolled his shoulder out of her reach, letting out a snort. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Caroline. It's not like I'm in love with her..." he nearly snapped. He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. Caroline stared; he looked more undone than she'd seen him in quite some time. He caught sight of her expression, and his scowl darkened. Darcy shook his head, throwing a hand in the air and beginning to pace. It was not a coincidence that he walked away from her. "I swear, women always do this! A second glance-"

Caroline gave him a look as if to point out that it wasn't merely a second look that was the problem. His increasing agitation was unsettling her. She'd only seen Darcy get this worked up before about protecting his sister. Darcy ignored her stubbornly and went on bluntly, "-_admiration_—does not equal love or a desire to commit. It doesn't mean a marriage proposal's imminent or that I can-" Realizing what he was about to say and that it included children, Darcy trailed off, stilling, and took a deep, calming breath. It was best not to get caught up in his irritation, to risk revealing too much. He looked up at her pointedly. "Sometimes a look is just a look and nothing more."

Then he looked away, as Caroline stood there speechless, and pressed his lips into a thin line. He didn't entirely trust himself not to snap at her further. "As fun as it is to discuss hypothetical situations with you, I've got to get to bed. I have work in the morning," Darcy said frostily but politely enough. It wasn't quite an apology, but Caroline relaxed a little at the familiarity of the clipped, very nearly robot-like voice.

Talking to Caroline about Lizzie, or, as happened more often than not, _listening_ to her talk about Lizzie, always left him with more questions and aggravations than answers. He'd had great, glorious, exhausting sex three times tonight, and Caroline had somehow managed to ruin it for him and confuse everything that had seemed so simple and conquerable earlier. Things were so much simpler when it was just he and Lizzie, alone, without labels or society judging and intruding on their lives. But the minute he left that room, just about, the minute it stopped being the two of them... it was like stepping out of a warm pool where he was surrounded and supported by the water, able to do anything, and into the shockingly cold air without a towel, naked. Back to reality, to being a fish out of water. His thoughts tangled and unclear, lost in a fog of sensation and reason and so many other considerations.

Darcy let out a yawn and started to turn away, padding towards the exit. He offered Caroline a lame wave, wondering briefly why she'd been up at this hour. "Goodnight, Caroline." He was halfway up the same stairs Lizzie had exited by before Caroline said goodbye. She stared after him for a good five seconds, wondering if she'd stepped into some weird nighttime Twilight Zone or if the time of night was playing tricks on her. Darcy stopped when her goodbye reached him but otherwise proceeded up the stairs in with stoicism that was a bit more forced than usual. The furious workings of his mind, however, ensured that it was over an hour before he fell asleep.

- Loren ;*


	5. In the Closet

And with this chapter, we close up the Netherfield Arc. After which the real action of the story starts! And updates will hopefully come faster (sorry about that!). I hope you're as excited as I am... I can't believe I have so many favorites and followers and everything! I feel like I should say more about this chapter and be more eloquent or something, but I can't say anything other than that I've worked on it for a while and have been up too long for me to be eloquent or anything (but I swore I was going to finish this tonight/this morning, and that I wouldn't sleep until I did, so here we are). Alas. I think this was possibly the first chapter that was entirely written after actually seeing Darcy, but I'm really not sure.

As always, I don't own the LBD. Nor do I own the original novel, even though Jane Austen is technically public domain. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Reviews are highly appreciated as always, if it strikes your fancy or you have the time or whatever. And if you have any questions, feel free to hit me up.

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Darcy was sitting on his bed, his computer open at his side, reading a book (a volume of Anna Akhmatova's early poems that he'd picked up on a trip to the library with Lizzie), when Lizzie walked into his bedroom without ceremony or invitation. He smiled a little, remembering that trip, one of few times his attempts to spend more time with Lizzie had actually been successful, even if it had just been the two of them wandering aimlessly for a few hours looking at books in silence. He had been painfully conscious of her presence, of her every moment, and he'd been so busy pretending not to notice, pretending not to watch her out of the corner of the eye, that he'd grabbed this particular set of poems by mistake.

She didn't even seem to notice his presence at first, but he sensed her entering the room and straightened reflexively. She was frantically scanning his room for something, and he frowned, setting down his book and sliding off of the bed. His eyes went straight to the open door (it wasn't like him to leave it open since he never knew when Caroline would be about, but he'd been working on being more _approachable_ at various friends' recommendations), already watching for her sister or one of the Lees as he approached her. It wasn't like her to show up in his bedroom when the sun was out, much less without texting.

He'd gotten in the habit recently of having his phone on him at all times, largely thanks to Lizzie, though he still used his phone as a defense mechanism and way of escaping unwanted conversation. He was trying very hard not to smile or immediately jump to the likely and wholly reasonable conclusion that he would soon be having sex... but why else would she be here to see him?

She nearly jumped when she turned and finally saw him there, towering over her with a questioning look on his face. He noticed that she looked a bit flustered; her cheeks were flushed, her hair was a bit messy, like she'd been running around. "I'm, uh, sorry to barge in on you like this," she muttered, casting furtive glances around the room and swallowing hard. Darcy shrugged, and she shifted uncomfortably, her eyes on everything but him. He wondered what she had to tell him; it was starting to make him nervous. She took a step towards him, lowering her voice an octave. "I was actually wondering if you'd seen my favorite necklace?" she said, looking up at him hopefully, their gazes connecting for a microsecond.

He tried his best not to frown; this was not by any means what he'd been expecting. Darcy's brow furrowed in confusion as he tried to remember all the necklaces he'd ever seen her in. It was probably more of a woman thing, noticing those little details. "I've looked everywhere else, so I figured I'd check here..." she continued, glancing around the room. Her expression fell a little when she didn't see it anywhere in the open, her shoulders slumping faintly. Her expression turned apologetic as her eyes darted up to meet his once more. He didn't like seeing either apology or disappointment on her face. "I didn't know you'd be here... I'm really sorry to bother you," she babbled, twisting her hands.

"Don't be," Darcy said commandingly. He reached out and then hesitated but, after a moment of deliberation, he put his hand lightly on her shoulder as he'd intended. "I wasn't doing anything important." He'd found, to his consternation, that he had less of a head for business and the mundane details of corporate life now, when she was under the same roof. Lizzie stared at his hand, her jaw a bit slack, and then turned back to face him head on. "What does the necklace look like?" he asked patiently. He always helped Gigi look for things, and he was generally able to find them. Failing that, he was generally able to buy her an exact copy. It probably wouldn't work the same for Lizzie, but he'd probably been the one to take off said piece of jewelry, so helping her find it was the least he could do.

Lizzie relaxed a little and launched into a description of the necklace that he couldn't make much sense of except that it was silver, kind of eclectic with a few white and yellow pieces and flowers. Lizzie fought the urge to roll her eyes at his uncomprehending look. "The one I wore at Bing's party? And the Gibson wedding?" she explained further. At this, Darcy had a flash of memory; he recalled Lizzie mentioning something about the same necklace right before she'd left the party. She'd lost it then too. He nodded a bit distractedly and looked around the room himself.

He hadn't noticed anything out of place, but he'd been more distracted than usual lately. "You check my closet and dresser," he said, directing her to that area as he headed to his bed to check his nightstands. He found nothing that could potentially belong to a woman, even when he checked the drawers. Lizzie, meanwhile, did as he told her to, trying not to roll her eyes, checking the top of his dresser and then bending down to peer underneath it. She went around to the side of the dresser, getting down on her knees and feeling around under it just as Darcy started to look and feel around under his bed. Neither of them were getting anything but dust, which was making Darcy's eyes water.

At that very moment, someone rapped on Darcy's very open door. Lizzie pressed herself between Darcy's dresser and the wall, glancing out at the balcony and debating an escape through those tempting French doors. She'd always wanted to go out onto Darcy's balcony but had lacked time or a sufficient excuse, and the door just sitting open like that was now mocking her. The noise, however, startled Darcy, and he wound up banging his head hard on the underside of his bed. He swore mostly under his breath and let out a hiss at the pain before carefully beginning to back out. "Darcy, are you okay?" Jane's concerned voice rang out. "It sounded like you might've hurt yourself."

No kidding, Darcy thought, gritting his teeth and rubbing the sore spot on his forehead. "I'm fine," he grunted, raising his voice a little so she would be able to hear him. "Give me a second. I'm not exactly... decent," he added a moment later, pushing out from under his bed. He paused a moment, thinking of a plausible reason for him to race to the door and hold it almost all the way closed, before suppressing a sigh and taking off his shirt. If she hadn't already commented on Lizzie being in his room, she probably hadn't noticed.

His suspicions were confirmed when he straightened and saw Lizzie wedged in between his dresser and the wall. Her eyes darted down to his chest momentarily, briefly gratifying his ego and alleviating some of the stinging pain in his head. "Hide in the closet when I give you a signal," Darcy muttered out of the side of his mouth. Lizzie nodded uncertainly, wondering why he'd taken his shirt off to go talk to her sister, but she supposed Darcy's shirtless chest was as good a distraction as anything else (Darcy was admittedly counting on both this and Jane's discomfort at seeing him in any state of undress). Darcy headed to the doorway where Jane was waiting; he was glad she hadn't ventured further into his room, as either of the Lee siblings would've. He cleared his throat, straightening and grabbing the door handle, closing it most of the way and not having to feign embarrassment at being caught in this state.

Jane briefly glanced down, blushing for him and averting her gaze very quickly. She briefly gave him a questioning look. "I was exercising," he said, feeling obligated to explain. Lizzie snorted quietly, and even Jane gave him a vaguely miffed look since he wasn't especially disheveled or sweaty. She could see through the lie, but she reddened further when it occurred to her that Darcy might've been doing something else entirely, considering his state of undress... She couldn't look at him now entirely, and Jane silently cursed Lizzie for corrupting her mind. Darcy glanced behind him and motioned with the hand behind his back for Lizzie to move into his closet. He arranged his body just perfectly so he could block out any view Jane could potentially have of her sister rounding the dresser. "So, uh, Jane... what did you want?"

Jane snapped out of her thoughts, shaking her head a little. "Um, right," she said, still trying not to look at Darcy. She really didn't want to think about whatever he'd been doing before. It wasn't in her nature to question what people said anyway. "I was actually wondering if you'd seen Lizzie," Jane said, rubbing her hands together. Darcy gave her a questioning look, raising his brows particularly imperiously as if to ask why she thought he would have seen Lizzie. He'd learned long ago that not speaking was better than saying the wrong thing, as he was so prone to doing. His heart was racing, of course, and he wiped a sweaty palm on his pants in an attempt to seem less anxious. He wanted to look back at where he knew Lizzie would be, but he couldn't risk it. Then it was Jane's turn to explain. "She's been looking for her necklace everywhere, and the last anyone saw her, she was headed this way."

Darcy nodded in a manner he hoped was disinterested. "Maybe she just got lost. This is a large house, larger than she's used to. She'll probably turn up later," he suggested coolly. Jane pursed her lips, considering this, while Lizzie hung her head in the closet, wondering if she was _ever _going to find her necklace. Probably not, she concluded, hoping her sister would go away soon enough so that she could leave and search elsewhere. She should've just texted Darcy, but she'd been so desperate to find it.

Jane conceded that Darcy probably had a point, but she and Lizzie had been living there for more or less a month and hadn't gotten lost since their first week there. It didn't seem likely; what seemed more likely was that Lizzie was still looking or that she'd found some private spot for solitude and was out roaming the grounds. Nonetheless, Jane nodded and said, "You're probably right... but can you tell her I'm looking for her if you see her?" Darcy nodded an affirmative, fully ready to shut the door, and Jane smiled gratefully. "I need her help with some things, and I know she wanted to be ready to go before dinner." Jane's eyes were wide and doe-like with the faintest traces of worry.

Darcy's questioning frown deepened further. "Go where?" he asked a bit more abruptly than he meant to. All of him seemed to take up the slim space between the doorframe and the door, and it made him look incredibly menacing. Jane's expression fell a little, but Darcy registered surprise there. He had trouble telling how Jane felt about anything. She was so nice it had to be an act, and she looked and acted like some kind of doll or 1950s housewife. He still wasn't sure what to make of her or how to tell when and if she was being genuine, though he had no real reason to disbelieve her.

"Oh, I went by the house yesterday. The renovations are finally done. We're going back home after dinner. Bing didn't tell you?" Jane told him, the corners of her perfect lips turning down a little. Her expression then seemed almost pitying as Darcy shook his head, wondering why Bing had neglected to mention this detail. Probably because once the Bennets left, he'd be left alone again with Caroline for company, and he'd once again mostly hate his life and be looking for an excuse to escape Bing's company. Jane tucked a strand of hair behind her ear a bit nervously, noting the way Darcy's expression darkened. It was strange because she hadn't thought Darcy had especially looked forward to having them there, but maybe even he would be lonely when they left.

Darcy, meanwhile, was wondering why Lizzie herself hadn't told him she was leaving. He hadn't seen her much last night, probably because she'd been packing. In fact, that was probably why she was looking for her necklace... she was leaving today, and she hadn't thought to say a single word about it to him. What did that mean for whatever they had going? He found himself irrationally angry with her, and it only got worse the more he thought about it. Fortunately, Jane's voice once again snapped Darcy out of his reveries.

She cleared her throat not quite tremulously, and Darcy's gaze snapped back over to hers. "You wouldn't have happened to see Lizzie's necklace somewhere, would you?" she asked guilelessly. He did his best to frown and look like he had no idea what she was talking about. Jane's tiny smile faltered a bit at the foreboding look on Darcy's face. She really tried her best to think the best of him since Bing liked him so much. He seemed pleasant enough, if disinterested, when she'd been around him in the past. Lizzie liked to call this him being abominably rude, but Jane thought it was just distractedness, like it didn't occur to him to do these things that most people did without thinking. Then again, Darcy was a bit of a different person whenever her sister was in the room, not that Lizzie noticed. It was hard to say these things to Lizzie, harder still to explain and argue with her sister that Darcy could be shy and nice at times... and then he had these strange tempers, fits of pride.

"It's the one she wore the other day." She frowned a little, thinking it over. "Saturday, I think?"

Darcy's brows shot up as if asking why he should remember this particular necklace. Jane, losing a bit of patience with him and his inability to articulate, tilted her head and gave him a skeptical look. As if she hadn't noticed Darcy checking out what she seriously hoped was her sister's neck and collarbone, rather than her breasts, long enough for her to not mistake it for anything else? Darcy shifted, glancing away from her but remaining tight-lipped, not willing to concede to what she seemed to be suggesting. He did, however, pretend to think about it. "I don't think I can recall the one you're talking about," Darcy said overly formally, prompting Jane to launch into a far-longer-than-expected description of said necklace until he actually could picture it in his mind in all the detail she'd described it in. Then again, he supposed such attention to detail and accessories was to be expected of someone in fashion.

He bore her description with a patient, neutral expression, doing his best to give her the impression that he was actively listening when his mind was really on her sister behind him. Lizzie was rolling her eyes, quite tired of hiding in Darcy's closet... not that she minded the view. He had a nice ass when he didn't ruin the picture by wearing hipster-preppy clothes. Still, she had to commend Jane for talking with Darcy that long. Lizzie was fairly certain she'd never had a conversation with Darcy for that long, certainly not one without her wanting to punch him at least once. Conversations with him were only actually tolerable after they'd had sex, which was quite possibly the only time Darcy had ever seemed to be relaxed in her presence. He also seemed to use less formal speech and fewer four-syllable words. "No, I'm sorry, I don't think I've seen it," Darcy said insincerely, trying not to roll his eyes at the insipid conversation he was being forced to carry on with. He tapped his fingers on the edge of the door impatiently, wanting nothing more than to close the door, turn around, and ask Lizzie why she hadn't told him.

Jane's nose wrinkled. "Really?" He tried not to give her an incredulous, incredibly peeved look but wasn't reasonably assured of his success in that endeavor. Darcy glanced anxiously back over at his shoulder, briefly meeting Lizzie's gaze before turning back to face Jane when Lizzie looked away after approximately a second. "It's just..." Jane continued, giving him an apologetic look, one of her hands on the doorframe. "It's my sister's favorite necklace, and I know she would be... really _grateful_ to whoever found it," she said, offering Darcy a hesitant smile, hoping he would give the message. Darcy visibly started; what was she hinting at? Why was she looking at him like that, like she saw right through him?

Did she know something? He glanced back at Lizzie, his expression quizzical, but she shrugged. She hadn't been able to hear what her sister had said, and even so, she probably still would've been oblivious to her sister's meaning. Darcy cleared his throat uncomfortably, wanting suddenly to loosen his collar. "Um, okay?" It came out in a bit of a squeak that was entirely unbecoming. Jane's expression turned progressively more smug. "I'll... tell her if I find it?" he all but stammered.

His attempts to sound commanding were failing miserably; even Jane was covering a smile at his expense. However, just as she looked down, she caught a flash of silver out of the corner of her eye on a piece of furniture right next to the door. She dropped her hand and stopped smiling; Darcy tracked her gaze before she could point, and he saw the familiar chain sitting there innocuously on his shelf. "Is that...?" He leaned over, cutting the necklace off from her line of sight, stretching so that his fingers closed around it, finding purchase on one of the flowers or buttons. He cast a glance back over his shoulder at Lizzie, giving her a pointed look and then tossing the necklace in her direction.

He didn't look back to see if she caught it, but Lizzie kind of jumped up and managed to do so. She cringed, retreating back into the closet when she heard how the floorboards creaked underneath her weight. She was certain that Darcy wanted to turn around and shout at her for that, but she was too relieved that her necklace was currently in her hands to say anything. Darcy coughed and stomped his feet, trying to make it look like the noise was attributable to himself and his considerable weight. He brought a hand up to run through his hair. "What?"

Jane gave him a very suspicious look. She could've almost sworn that she'd seen Lizzie's necklace on Darcy's shelf, but why would he have it, and, more importantly, why would he _lie_ about having seen it? Unless, well, maybe he wanted to be the one to give it to Lizzie himself? That sort of made sense, considering the way he stared at her sister. Nonetheless, she didn't dare question Darcy on it since a peek closer confirmed that the flash of silver was no longer there. Bing had told her that Darcy was a very private guy, and it had been made clear very early on that there were certain boundaries one didn't cross with him. She was sure he was hiding something from her, but it wasn't her place to inquire further and ask things of him when she barely knew him.

She pursed her lips, wondering at his seeming distraction. It was fairly obvious that he wanted to do nothing more than close the door; Darcy wasn't especially great at hiding his impatience to escape the conversation. Her eyes lit up as she thought of a subject that was sure to engage him. "My sister's really something, isn't she?" Darcy's eyes widened a little as if she'd caught him in something. Jane let out a little laugh. "You two always have such... spirited discussions," she continued cheerily.

Lizzie had heard this and fought the urge to roll her eyes. Spirited was a mild way of putting it, but _any _argument must be spirited for the house's other nonconfrontational occupants. Darcy attempted a smile-like expression. Jane liked smiling a lot, didn't she? Maybe if he smiled at her she'd go away, and he could have one of those "spirited discussions" with her sister. "Yes, she is," he said coolly. Jane gave him an expectant look not unlike the one her sister sometimes gave him when she wanted him to elaborate on something. He stifled a sigh and said, after a while, "I've never met anyone like her before." It came out with a bit more breathless wonder than he intended, and he almost cringed at the way it made him sound.

Evidently Jane took this as a compliment because her lips turned upwards, her expression instantly pleased. A bit too pleased, Darcy thought with dismay. Lizzie, on the other hand, gave Darcy's back a skeptical look. She hadn't seen Darcy's face, so it was impossible to infer if he'd meant that as a compliment or an insult. Knowing what she did of Darcy, naturally, she took it for the latter. "There's only one Lizzie," Jane informed him fondly. He couldn't help but think it sounded rather like a warning because there was something almost pitying in her expression. Jane shook her head, laughing a little. "She's so stubborn, you know?"

Darcy found himself leaning in towards Jane; he was unable to resist any additional knowledge of Lizzie as of late. They didn't talk much, despite their nighttime activities, and he knew precious little about her life or family. He'd noticed this particular trait, of course, recognizing it in himself as well, but Jane knew her sister far better than he did. Jane stopped talking, her brow furrowing a bit, staring up at him. She was debating whether to keep talking, mostly unaware that Darcy was literally hanging on her every word.

It wasn't quite her place, but he seemed nice enough, and he was Bing's best friend. Bing had told her that Darcy's opinions meant a lot to him, and clearly he was interested in getting to know her sister better (and not, probably, out of pure politeness). So maybe she could help him out a little, if only to make things a bit less awkward when they all hung out together. Eventually, though, something in his eyes, perhaps his eagerness, decided for her. "Once she gets an idea into her head, she has a hard time shaking it... and sometimes my sister can't see the forest from the trees," Jane whispered, leaning in conspiratorially.

Had Lizzie heard this, she would've protested quite loudly later on, but as it was she merely frowned and wondered why Darcy was leaning so far forward to talk to her sister. He'd said Jane was pretty before, but he wasn't really... She shook her head at the ridiculousness of the stray thought. Darcy might be a douche, but he wasn't about to steal his best friend's girlfriend. Darcy frowned, not quite knowing what to make of this or why Jane was smiling at him so. "That doesn't sound like Lizzie to me," he said a bit more loudly than he intended. Jane's eyebrows went up; he thought he knew her sister now? Darcy cleared his throat, doing his best to not look behind him. "She's stubborn, yes, but she's... sensible. Rational. Intelligent..." He knew he'd sounded a bit like a robot there, listing off qualities to her sister's amusement, but he trailed off, thinking about the way that spark of intelligence really lit up her eyes.

Jane nodded, her smile softening a bit. "And beautiful too," she supplied helpfully. Darcy understood then why Bing called her an angel. Jane had a way of lighting up a room and everyone's spirits with her mere presence. He chanced a glance back over his shoulder, seeing Lizzie curled up in the corner of his closet in the dark, arms wrapped around her legs. He saw her mouth a question at him ("what are you talking about?" if he was reading her lips correctly), looking just a little bit confused and uncomfortable and other things besides as she leaned out into the light. Somehow he tore his eyes away from her and then, and only then, he smiled, quite against his will. Jane's smile widened. "I'm sure that hasn't escaped your notice," Jane continued with a slyness and a pointed look he wouldn't have expected from her.

So she'd noticed the staring then (and how could she not?). Darcy immediately reddened, his entire face feeling hot. He didn't blush often, but he wished his damn face wouldn't give him away. He must be the color of the youngest sister's hair now. Jane's expression, however, was gentle. She was merely smiling at him knowingly, unlike Lizzie, who would've mocked him mercilessly for it. Sometimes he wondered how two women so dissimilar could be sisters. Lizzie was direct and brash and opinionated and fearless and passionate, while Jane was indirect, sweet, polite, and quiet. Lizzie was a mess and complicated and more things than he had words for, bright and in living color, whereas Jane was... she was like pastels, faded colors, limp and simple and... boring. Bing's type, maybe, all girlish and sunshine and vintage clothing and soft smiles, but not his.

Taking pity on him, Jane briefly reached out and set her hand on his shoulder in an almost maternal gesture. "You know, Darcy, you have a really nice smile. You should smile more often," she told him in a voice that was meant to be encouraging. She meant it, of course; his entire being seemed to lighten a little, like he took himself a bit less seriously, whenever he smiled. It made him look younger and less severe, less like the old man Bing feared he was becoming ahead of his time.

Bing worried about him a lot. He'd told her a bit about his friend, how Darcy was shy and took so much work on himself, that he had no life and Bing felt like he had to drag him out to have fun and a normal life. As a future doctor, it was in Bing's nature to want the best health for everyone. He especially wanted to prevent his friend from falling into an early grave, which Darcy's intense, worry-prone nature and family history of stress-related circulatory problems made all the more likely. He felt he owed it to Darcy after all he'd done for him. Jane had tried at times to pass on bits of this to her sister, but Lizzie was determined to think the worst of him and refused to believe it. She didn't exactly trust the powers of Jane and Bing's discernment, since both tended to think the best of everyone and Bing spoke of Darcy with the partiality of a best friend.

Her advice, however, just made Darcy very uncomfortable because, once again, as always, Jane was smiling. It couldn't be natural to smile that much. He shifted a bit under her scrutiny, not wholly comfortable with the way she was looking at him. It reminded him a bit too much of the way her mother had looked at Bing (and still did) and then himself before his manners and taciturn nature had quite put her off. And when had Jane ever seen him smiling to comment on it? He couldn't remember smiling around her. Even his smiles around Lizzie were rare, usually reserved for moments when they were alone together, and he was so satisfied he was almost convinced there was nothing wrong with the world.

Plus, Jane's hand was on his bare shoulder. The last time he'd touched Jane and vice-versa was when he'd reluctantly shaken her hand upon meeting her. He looked down at her hand, staring at it pointedly until she thought to remove it. He was too uncomfortable in his own skin to say anything. All he wanted was for her to go away so that he could be alone with her sister and feel marginally less uncomfortable. Jane fought the uncharacteristic urge to roll her eyes as she took her hand off of Darcy's shoulder. Talking to him was kind of like talking to a brick wall, no matter how hard she tried. Sometimes Lizzie did have a point about Darcy, as much as Jane didn't want to admit it. She shrugged. "Lizzie might like it," she suggested nonchalantly, turning on her heel and heading back down the hallway, intent on finding her sister.

Darcy let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and closed the door behind him, turning so that his back was pressed against the door, as if to deter any other potential intruders. Seeing this, Lizzie stood and carefully stepped out of his closet. She gave Darcy a quizzical look. "Putting on a show for my sister, are we?" she quipped, barely managing to stifle a snort. Darcy opened his eyes and shot her a dark look, hoping his face wasn't still bright red. He stalked past her, walking across his room to pick up the t-shirt he'd discarded earlier. "I think you picked the wrong sister," Lizzie added archly; it was hard to tell if she was being flirtatious or merely mocking him. The ambiguity of her statement didn't help matters.

"I had to think of some way to distract your sister and explain why I was holding the door closed," he muttered irritably while pulling the shirt over his head. Lizzie's eyes were glued to his torso, watching his abdominal muscles flex. When his head emerged from the collar, he saw that Lizzie was giving him a skeptical look. He wondered momentarily if she was jealous of her sister, if she thought he was paying her undue attention, before realizing how absurd the mere thought was. Darcy shrugged, running his fingers through his hair, stepping to the side to examine his reflection in the mirror. "It works on _you_, Elizabeth," he retorted, still attempting to fix his hair.

Lizzie flushed a little and averted her gaze from his back. She tried not to think about how broad Darcy's shoulders were. He'd never said anything to make her feel self-conscious about looking at him before, which was only natural since he was always staring at her intently. Why should he call her out on a crime he was far more guilty of? She couldn't well deny it, but she couldn't admit it either. Nothing was worse than letting Darcy win. "Generally because it means I'm going to get laid just as soon as I can tear the rest of your clothes off of you. It's like a Pavlovian response," Lizzie countered a bit combatively, a bit of a growl to her voice.

Darcy nearly choked on his own saliva when he heard that. He swallowed hard, trying to forget the way her voice sounded, just a little throaty, when she mentioned tearing his clothes off. If he'd actually looked at Lizzie, not that he trusted himself to be able to do that now, it might've dispelled him of the notion that she wanted him then. But he didn't, and he chose to focus on the second part of her comment instead. "So, what, you're operant-conditioned to drool at the sight of my bare chest? Like I'm a piece of meat or something?"

He winced a bit after; he hadn't meant to sound so annoyed. He wasn't annoyed at all, though he was somewhat uncomfortable being less than fully dressed around her. Perhaps it was because they rarely had rendezvous during the night because they were both occupied, or maybe it was just his usual discomfort at being anything less than completely covered, at being subject to another's scrutiny. Lizzie, however, paid him little mind. His comment had left her a little peeved. "Who says it's just you, that any shirtless man wouldn't do?" she asked archly, hands on her hips. He was silent to that, and Lizzie smiled a little to herself.

Darcy froze, considering it for the first time. What other guys? He turned around abruptly to find Lizzie trying to suppress snickers at the rather put-out expression on his face. It was not the first time she'd laughed at him, nor would it be the last. Darcy didn't particularly like being thought of as an object of ridicule, but, then, she was _laughing... _and she so rarely laughed in his presence, much less with that deep, happy laugh he'd heard from time to time across a crowded room. His would-be pout faded as he remembered the last time she'd laughed at him.

It had been an afternoon very much like this one, a rare one, and they'd been alone. He still didn't know what she'd found so funny, and it bothered him a little. She'd been unable to stop laughing, though, even when he'd given her his sternest look. She'd quieted eventually, but she shook her head at him with a rather pitying expression. "You take yourself too seriously. You need to learn to laugh at yourself, Darcy," she'd told him a bit too solemnly, looking at any moment like she was going to burst back out into laughter. She'd meant it,  
though.

He perhaps should've listened to her and saved himself a lot of trouble later on, but, as it was, he merely set his laptop aside. Before she even knew what he was about, he'd crossed over to her and bent down to kiss her laughing mouth. It wasn't hard to distract her, and it wasn't long before they were finding a better way to use the all-too comfortable sofa in the lounge. If she giggled afterwards, it was from pleasure. Darcy smiled a little, thinking of it, that afternoon delight.

Lizzie, meanwhile, had stopped laughing and rolled her eyes, wondering at why Darcy had gone so quiet. The almost-happy (but timidly so, as if he was _afraid _to actually let himself experience true happiness, if he even knew what that was) look on his face made him look particularly and strangely dopey. After a few too many moments of this, she walked up towards him unwillingly and snapped her fingers loudly. He blinked, startled out of his thoughts, turning that all-too-intense gaze back on her. She took a step backwards unthinkingly, wishing she'd just used his distraction to leave the room instead. Now that she had all of his attention, she didn't entirely know what to do with it, much less remember what she was going to say exactly. She swallowed and said, after a moment, "Thanks for finding my necklace." She smiled politely, holding her necklace up as if to brandish it, having not had the time or inclination to risk putting it on Darcy's closet.

Darcy straightened a little and cleared his throat. He gestured to the necklace. "I can... uh..." He made another helpless gesture, this time motioning from the necklace to her neck. At first Lizzie blinked, uncomprehending, but then, after a few more moments of awkward charades, she understood and nodded, turning her back to him and handing him the necklace. Darcy swept her hair aside carefully, his fingers just skimming the top of her back. Lizzie tried not to fidget. He looped the necklace around her neck, and as the necklace fell against her breastbone, on the flat of her chest, she tried not to think about how easy it would be for Darcy to strangle her right now.

For his part, Darcy was trying not to think about how much he wanted to rest his hands on her shoulders and feel her cool, creamy skin. With barely any difficulty (Darcy was somehow unaccountably disappointed that his fingers weren't clumsy enough to fumble a bit more and touch her accidentally), he managed to do the clasp, and he gently released the necklace, unable to resist smoothing it against her skin. Lizzie turned around so quickly that her hair whipped against Darcy's face. She opened her mouth to thank him again, but the suddenly smoldering look in Darcy's eyes gave her pause. She frowned, waiting for him to speak but oh so eager to leave. When he finally spoke, it was in a low, measured voice, a bit robotic as always but with an additional undercurrent of barely suppressed anger. "Were you ever going to tell me you were leaving today?"

Her brow furrowed. If she didn't know better, she would've thought Darcy was upset. She was fairly certain he'd wanted them gone for quite some time, given his rather unenthusiastic tweets upon their arrival, so him somehow being bothered by her absence seemed strange. She shrugged. "I... just found out yesterday that the house was livable..." And obviously, she added silently, I hadn't seen you since then until this very moment... a decision which she could admit was kind of... deliberate on her part. She hadn't really felt like she needed to tell him or that they needed to talk in private about it. After all, she wasn't even _his_ houseguest, and he wasn't... anything... to her that obligated her to tell him in person. "I mean, I'm sure you've gotten sick of us overstaying our welcome. I didn't really think you'd care."

Darcy raised a brow, clearly skeptical. "You didn't think I'd _care _to know that?" he asked with a mild incredulity, raising his voice a little. He was angrier than he thought he'd be, and he didn't entirely know why. Yes, Darcy hated it when people failed to tell him things he had a right to know, but that wasn't it. He would miss having Lizzie and her sister under the same roof, though he probably would never admit it to anyone but Gigi, if only so that he wasn't left alone with a lovesick and mostly-absent Bing and Caroline at her most bored and irritable. Of course he would also miss Lizzie being so readily available...

Lizzie shrugged again, looking away from him, her fingers finding her necklace. She shifted a bit uncomfortably. More often than not, Darcy's intensity was a bit too much for her. Still, it hadn't stopped her from noticing that, unlike either Lee, Darcy hadn't denied that they were overstaying their welcome. "I figured Bing would tell you. It's not a big deal, and it was going to happen anyway," she continued dismissively. She was trying not to wonder what leaving meant for whatever they had going. Half of her assumed that it ended here, and half of her figured the reverse was true. She was trying to convince herself that she didn't really care either way, but the truth was that she was growing more comfortable around Darcy in spite of herself.

When she looked up, Darcy's eyes were on her, his stare purposeful. She knew what that look meant, that slightly amused yet urging expression. She took a step backwards, purposefully avoiding his gaze. "Darcy, I _can't_ right now," she protested, holding her hands out in front of her and taking a big step back. She half-turned to see the door Darcy had shut, as if expecting it to open or be knocked on again. There had been a few too many close-calls for her not to be expecting to be discovered at any moment. Darcy tilted his head, giving her a skeptical look. "Jane's looking for me... It's the middle of the day-" she rushed to explain.

She was backing up and looking back over her shoulder at the door at the same time, so she only noticed Darcy approaching her when he'd wrapped his hands around both her arms and made her stop. She strained to move backward, but Darcy held her firmly in place. Seeing the futility of struggling, she stilled and forced herself to crane her neck to look up at him. Lizzie swallowed a bit more tremulously than before; she wasn't afraid, but she wasn't in the mood for any of this. "When am I going to see you again?" Darcy's voice, deeper and lower than usual, rang out into the silence of the room. There was an urgency in his tone that nearly made Darcy cringe; it sounded desperate to his own ears. Lizzie registered this urgency too, but she thought it was the typical presumptuousness of a man who was used to getting what he wanted right when he wanted it.

Lizzie dropped her gaze pointedly to where his hands gripped her upper arms. Darcy raised his brows a bit but looked down a moment later and accordingly loosened his grip. He knew he hadn't hurt her, but the intensity of the reaction embarrassed him. It wasn't like she was leaving forever or that he would never see her once she left this place... nothing even had to change. He would just see _less_ of her, that was all (and, piped up a small voice in his head, it's probably a lot healthier that way). She could avoid him in a way she couldn't under the same roof, even in a house as large as Netherfield.

She made a bit of a face and rubbed her arms distractedly, not looking at Darcy. She was looking past him at the door, anxious to leave. "_Whenever_," she told him evasively, "We have the same friends... and you've got my number." Lizzie was well-aware after a month of living with Darcy that avoiding him was nearly impossible, whether she was living in the same house with him or not. As long as Jane and Bing were still dating and none of them had other friends in her town, she would be hanging out with Darcy in the near future whether she wanted to or not. Honestly, she was a bit surprised he was so intent on wanting to see her again, but, then, she supposed he didn't have anyone else to go to. She looked back up at Darcy.

His expression was stern, his eyebrows drawn together. Sometimes people said things like that and then never got back to you. Darcy was not that kind of man, so he was in the habit of securing more concrete, set-in-stone answers. "Lizzie..." he said in a voice that was part warning, part pleading. Then he stared at her so intently and directly that it was all Lizzie could do not to shiver or otherwise fidget. Sometimes she couldn't quite function when he was staring at her like that. It was plain from that look that he was expecting an answer, and she wasn't wholly prepared to give him one. How was this going to work when they weren't living in the same house? She didn't entirely know. But Darcy just kept staring at her with those ice crystal blue eyes like he wasn't going to let her leave unless she gave him an answer.

She shifted uncomfortably and then sighed, conceding. "Okay, fine." Darcy almost smiled reflexively but suppressed it at the last moment. To Lizzie, he looked simultaneously somewhat constipated (from the effort of trying not to smile, not that she knew it) and incredulous. If she hadn't been so discomfited, she probably would've laughed at his expression. Instead, she closed her eyes and forced the awkward invitation out, trying not to grimace. Best if she just get it out quickly; after all, what were the odds he'd even agree to it? "You can... come over tonight," she said quickly.

Darcy's jaw went just a bit slack. He hadn't entirely expected to see her tonight, much less to be invited to her house. What did that mean, anyway? How would that happen, much less with all of her family there? He almost cringed to think of it, imagining running into her eccentric but silent father, her enthusiastic mother, her energetic and loud sister, or, worse, sunshine-and-rainbows-_Jane_ in the hallway. If he could manage to explain his presence there, which was in and of itself doubtful, the odds were high that they would all take it the wrong way, for it to be more than it was.

Going to her house and having sex with her in her _real _bed, the bed of her girlhood and adolescence, it felt real... serious. It was a big step, and it meant something, right? He wasn't so sure he wanted to risk all of that, but then he was just attempting to navigate the strange waters of whatever this not-quite-relationship was. There were lines that had been drawn, but they weren't so distinct that either of them understood all of these invisible boundaries.

But then she opened her eyes, and her lovely ocean eyes met Darcy's, and his doubts resolved themselves. It was kind of worrisome, actually, his opinion completely reversing itself, but he knew instantly that he would've gone anywhere she wanted him to, anywhere if it meant he could see her. She looked down a little, as if embarrassed. Of course she hadn't worked anything out yet, but her parents and Lydia hadn't seen her for a month, and they probably would want to spend time with her. "Assuming my parents aren't monopolizing my time," she added after a moment's thought, looking back up at him and smiling somewhat awkwardly, "I'll text you."

She bit her lip, wondering how many questions she could expect from her mother. Jane would undoubtedly receive the lion's share of both her mother's attention and questions, but she wouldn't be immune. Darcy was making that vaguely pleased but not-quite-smiling expression he made in photos; an expression _more_ pleased than the one he wore in photos, Lizzie amended, because Darcy obviously hated getting his picture taken and only bore it with a detached equanimity while attempting to maintain his dignity as best he could.

He nodded just once, secretly a bit relieved that she wasn't completely giving him what he wanted, either in terms of a concrete answer or a promise of seeing her that night. Besides, she was an honest woman, for the most part (excepting telling anybody about this affair, but that was for everyone's benefit), and he trusted her. If she said she was going to text him, she would. "That sounds acceptable," he said coolly. He didn't want to be seen to be looking forward to it too much in case she couldn't get away. He didn't want to get his hopes up.

Lizzie tried not to roll her eyes. Trust Darcy to be unemotional and unexcited about her inviting him back to her house for hot sex. She was a hot bundle of nerves already just thinking about it and the mechanics (and acoustics) of it, but he was calm and cool as a cucumber, practically expressionless. How nice it must be to never worry about anything. She knew already that she was going to regret this, bringing him back to her house. It was probably going to be more trouble than it was worth anyway, because hot sex was only worth so much in life... but it was what it was.

Lizzie looked up at him silently, wondering if he had more to say. He rocked forward on his heels just a little, his brow wrinkling slightly. "Your sister said I had a nice smile and that I should smile more often," he said uncertainly, lacing his fingers together and twiddling his thumbs. Lizzie raised her brows, a bit taken aback by the suddenness at which he'd said this. Why was he telling her this, what her sister had said? Did he think she should care? Did he want her to agree, to tell him what to do about it? She tilted her head to the side and regarded Darcy for a moment, taking in his discomfort, the way he was fidgeting a bit. Did he actually think that meant Jane was into him or something?

She frowned a bit, her brows coming together as she attempted to think of a polite way to formulate the sentence. "Um, okay," she muttered, trailing off and throwing him an expectant look. He merely stared back at her so intently Lizzie eventually had to look away. His face fell a little bit, but she didn't see it as she was too busy looking at his bookshelf. He obviously hadn't decorated it himself because there were a lot of matching volumes that looked like they'd never been read. They may not have even been real. While she didn't doubt that Darcy's famous home library had similar (better) volumes in its collection, she would never accuse him of not being a voracious reader... so perhaps the decorative volumes were not to his taste.

Of course, expecting Darcy to elaborate on his feelings or thoughts was a fool's errand; what had she been thinking? Lizzie exhaled wearily and forced herself to look at him. She didn't owe him anything more, but he was out of his mind if he thought her sister would flirt with him! She met his gaze and failed to notice how Darcy started a bit, slightly taken aback at the determined look in her eyes. "And you're just mentioning this to me because... what?" Lizzie countered, putting her hands on her hips. She let her eyes drop so that she could better size him up. This time she noticed how hard he swallowed and the way he pressed his hands into the sides of his legs. "You're either trying for some kind of full-disclosure policy or... you're questioning my sister's motives." She proceeded to stare him down, waiting for an answer. Which was it?

He shifted uncomfortably but did not dare look away from her. He probably couldn't have looked away from her even if he wanted to. He flexed his fingers, stealthily wiping his palms on his pants. Darcy hadn't thought she would assume that, but he supposed it made sense considering how he'd fixated on her not telling him she was leaving—but, then again, didn't she see that that was so much more important than her sister commenting on his facial features? He'd just blurted it out really because he was confused and maybe he wanted her to stay in his room a little bit longer. So he avoided answering, sensing there wasn't a right answer there either way, and merely stared back at her.

Lizzie suppressed a sigh but wasn't surprised. For a man who was heir to a media empire, he sure could be uncommunicative. At first she'd thought it was entirely a matter of choice, that she was beneath talking to, but she'd seen him when he was comparatively more at ease, so she knew he was capable of adequately communicating. Then again, he also had a particular knack for making statements that should have been perfectly normal or unoffensive insulting, so clearly he had some skill with words. "She wasn't flirting with _you_, you tool, if that's what you think. She was just being nice," Lizzie said after a while, crossing her arms over her chest and taking a deep breath.

Darcy's shoulders relaxed slightly. He was more relieved to have that knowledge than he was willing to admit. It didn't entirely assuage his concerns about the seriousness of Jane's feelings. Furthermore, the bite in Lizzie's voice made him frown. It wasn't the first time Lizzie had called him something to that effect, though she usually preferred to call him a snob or a hipster. Or, if they were in bed, and he was dragging things out a bit too much (and sometimes he did that, just to torment her a little the way she tormented him without even realizing it), sometimes she called him names and urged him on. There was a satisfaction to hearing those insults, though, since the breathy moan in which she said them negated any possible sting and only gave him an immense feeling of personal satisfaction.

He gave her a somewhat bewildered look as if Jane being nice was unfathomable. Somehow Lizzie managed not to roll her eyes. Why would Darcy understand what it was like to be nice to other human beings? The man seemed predisposed to question everyone's motives, even those of his closest friends. It was probably only a matter of time before he accused her of something ridiculous like using their little affair—that wasn't the right word for it—to exert money out of him or get ahead professionally. Not that Lydia or their mother helped matters, but her mother had at least never thrown her at Darcy with those intentions in mind.

Truthfully, Darcy did not understand how Jane could be so nice out of choice, but, then, he'd grown up with caution and limits to kindness because people would take advantage of you otherwise. You couldn't be _nice_ and run a successful business—generous or caring or understanding, perhaps, but not nice. His father, while certainly not unkind, had certainly never prized kindness much; he was respectful and kind to his employees because it served his bottom line and that was the kind of man he was and the kind of company he ran... but never kind for its own sake.

While Darcy wore his best "computing" face, Lizzie got tired of waiting for him to explain himself. This time she did sigh. "Did it ever occur to you, Darcy, that she was just saying that because it was true?" Lizzie asked archly. She had seen rare half-smiles or an upwards turn of closed lips, but she'd only seen a wide, real smile when he was... satisfied, so she imagined it was something he didn't do a whole lot. If she didn't find the expression particularly smug and... well, not exactly sleazy, but along those lines... she might like it or acknowledge that it was nice. But maybe there was more power behind that smile because it was so rare.

She pursed her lips, checking him out—not wholly in a romantic way, more in an appraising, evaluative way. The "Jane is just a nice person and that's what nice people do" argument didn't seem to be something he'd particularly buy into. Darcy arched a brow, his expression questioning. Did she agree with her sister? Did she think he had a nice smile or want him to smile more? The way she'd put that, stated it like it was an objective fact, implied she did. Lizzie threw out an arm, her palm facing upwards. "You could smile more," she remarked pointedly, giving him a look, "It wouldn't kill you, you know."

His lips twitched, like he actually thought about it. Or maybe, Lizzie mused, there was some kind of glitch in his programming that made him want to but he shorted out before he could. He looked down; she hadn't explicitly _said_ she wanted him to smile more, but she had said he _could_ smile more... which was true. He could (though he generally didn't see the point and preferred to parcel out the few smiles he felt himself capable of sparingly), and he knew this. What did that mean? His brow furrowed as he reached up to run a hand through his hair. Living with her and sleeping with her had not improved his understanding of her in quite the way he'd intended, nor had it done anything whatsoever to get her off of his mind.

Lizzie made a face and looked away. She uncrossed her arm and motioned with both hands towards the door. She debated using words but decided to just back towards the door quietly, leaving Darcy in almost the same state as she'd found him. He was obviously very deep in thought. However, this brilliant plan was foiled by Darcy reaching out and grabbing her arm. With a dexterity and strength she hadn't expected, he turned her back around and into him. She barely had enough time to look up at him, exasperated, before the other hand was cupping her cheek, tipping her face up to his. He had to half bend over to do it, but the discomfort was always worth it. Then his lips were on hers, and her hands were on his shoulders, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

His hand was heavy on her cheek. She tried not to shudder as he ran the pad of his thumb across her cheekbone. She did, however, open her mouth to his distractedly. His hand continued on its natural progression to tangle in her hair. Lizzie felt her knees go a bit inexplicably weak when his tongue swept across the inside of her cheek. The other hand released her arm, trailing down over her hand and then her leg. He half-smiled against her lips, glad she was wearing a dress today, and he hitched her leg up on his hip, pulling her against him. Lizzie grunted, stumbling a little, alarmed at how close they'd gotten so fast. Darcy's hand tightened on her thigh; he'd already begun backing them up towards the bed.

Upon realizing she was being moved, Darcy's other hand having found her back, Lizzie grunted in protest. "Mmfph." When Darcy kept walking, sliding her skirt up her leg, she hit his shoulders, pushing him back, shoving him. She managed to break away from him, flustered and a bit sheepish, her hair a mess, her clothes more rumpled. She let out a breath and looked down to see that both of her feet were back on the ground before smoothing her skirt self-consciously. Darcy, confused and breathing hard, admired the flush in her cheeks and the way she bit her bottom lip. It was still red from his kisses. He enjoyed seeing her speechless like this.

A somewhat mortified Lizzie was all the more relieved she was leaving Netherfield before she lost her mind completely. Weak in the knees? Letting her hormones get the best of her? Hating Darcy a little less? She'd definitely made a mistake in saying that she would text him tonight, that this little affair would continue. But ending it would be like saying... like saying it meant something, this, whatever it was they were doing. Her brow furrowed in contemplation, and Lizzie let out a breath, finally glancing up at Darcy.

She kind of expected him to be mad or at least irritated, and the fact that he wasn't surprised her a little.

He saw the uncertainty in her gaze and wondered what it meant. "I know, I know, you're busy, and your sister is looking for you, and you've got things to do. My timing is the worst," he began haltingly, gesturing with his hands hoping he was hiding his nerves. Lizzie surprised him by letting out a laugh and smiling almost to herself. That last statement had sounded, oddly, like something Lydia would say. It was harder to think of Darcy as some kind of not-real character in her life when he wasn't saying oddly formal things and sounding like a cross between someone's grandfather and a character in a Jane Austen novel. Somewhat encouraged by this, he continued, a half-smile forming, "Just giving the both of us something to look forward to later on."

Lizzie's brows shot up. That had sounded almost flirtatious. Another man, however, someone smoother, probably would've said something like, "Can't blame me for trying, can you?" and offered her a sheepish smile. The way Darcy had said it, confident but not quite smug, bugged Lizzie a bit, though she couldn't exactly put her finger on what bothered her about it. Then again, maybe what really bothered her about what he'd said was that he was actually _right._

She nodded and offered him a thin smile, still not quite feeling right. "Well," she began, involuntarily licking her lips, trying not to wrinkle her nose when she found that she could still taste him on her lips. She raked her fingers through her hair to put it to rights. "I'm gonna go now. Before someone _else_ walks in on us," she continued a bit anxiously, jerking her thumb behind her and starting to retreat blindly as she'd done earlier. She felt strangely unsteady, a bit like she was having trouble breathing, and she didn't know why—panic, horror, the undying urge to escape the awkwardness that was she and Darcy in the same room together, clothed?

Darcy nodded, though his face turned unexpectedly stern, the inexpressive lines or blankness of it standing out in sharp relief as a shadow passed over him. Sometimes, when she cared enough to think about it (she usually didn't), she thought she'd never understand him so long as she lived—not that she cared to, but she would've loved the simplicity of assuming she knew his character and that it was exactly the same of the more or less stranger she depicted on her vlogs. She wished she could be so sure she had him figured out, that there wasn't something about him she felt she was missing out on.

But that teeny tiny part of her that pointed out that he wasn't always a douche, that sometimes he could be pleasant or something like it, and maybe she was prejudiced, well... sometimes she wondered if it wasn't just saying that because she was sleeping with him, and she wanted to justify it a little better by seeing some (any) good in him and seizing onto it. Because everything else she'd seen of him, just about, seemed to suggest that those moments were isolated instances, and sleeping with him hadn't changed much of anything at all.

All the same, at least she could count on Darcy to tell the truth, to not sugarcoat things or pretend this was more than it was. To not lead her on or build her hopes up. He was at least that considerate. At least she could count on that. At least he was upfront about that, unlike most of the other men she'd slept with who feigned cluelessness and genuinely seemed surprised when she expected more.

It saved her from (feeling) anything she might've felt otherwise.

She kept backing up until her back hit the door, her hand finding the knob by groping around behind her. Darcy's eyes, naturally, stayed on her the entire time, as if she were some sort of spectacle. Then she turned around, turned her back on him, and fumbled with the doorknob. Darcy didn't stop staring, didn't stop watching her. She could feel his gaze burning into her back, which was why her hands slipped more than once.

"I'll see you at dinner," Lizzie threw over her shoulder half-heartedly before quietly opening the door slightly. She peered out of it with the utmost concentration before opening it a little bit wider and wider, sticking her head out of it until she could comfortably make certain that no one was lying in wait, that no one would see her leave with a guilty look on her face. Once this was established, she flashed Darcy a brief and mostly insincere smile before bolting. She did, however, make sure to shut the door behind her before she left. She didn't relax again until she found Jane.

Darcy had reached up to wave but had given up when she hadn't seen it. He let out a breath, rubbing his temple distractedly, and sitting back down on his bed. Then he went back to reading about thunder and fire and thinking about how much he hated reading poetry in translation, all the while trying to convince himself he wasn't wondering every moment if she would text him that night.

- Loren ;*


	6. Behind These Walls

So, first off, sorry it took me so long for this, but life and the fact that I sort of decided rather haphazardly I needed this chapter, and I never write the linking chapters, apparently. But this chapter was kind of important, and yeah. The chapter is random and has kind of a lot of different things going on, but I wanted to get some Mr. Bennet in... and you get a bit more into Lizzie's head here, even though she's kind of all over the place... and several other family members make appearances. I have to say this whole thing rather surprised me, to be honest, because it was more than I intended and went differently.

But, anyway, point is I don't own the Lizzie Bennet Diaries. Or Pride and Prejudice. Or any other literary or fictional works mentioned therein. I also want to say that I wrote the tape part dialogue before the whole drama with Lydia, so that was unintentional. Oh, and the next chapter will be up either tomorrow or the day after, depending.

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Lizzie didn't end up asking Darcy to come over the first night of being back in her old home. She was tired from unpacking and relieved to be home and, well, she just felt so much _lighter_ away from imposing Netherfield and the pressure of being a guest. She wanted to enjoy some time to herself in her bed alone in the quiet, and she didn't want to ruin her first mostly-Darcy-free evening in over a month. Lizzie did, however, text him to say that she was exhausted from unpacking and not-quite-apologize, because not doing that probably would've been rude. She was sure he thought his time was too precious to be wasted waiting by the phone. In retrospect, it was a kind of dumb decision since it was just Lizzie and Jane in the house, which would've made it easier and more low-risk to sneak him in.

So she went to bed early the first night after watching some mindless television, and she ended up texting Darcy the next night. She hadn't exactly intended to, but something about her entire family being around made her feel crazy and need some kind of escape. Her mother had said something at dinner. She'd congratulated Jane on snagging a wealthy man while simultaneously expressing her disappointment that there wasn't a shiny new rock in residence on Jane's left ring finger. She'd gone on about how Jane should've gotten pregnant in the month she'd been at Netherfield (to Jane's great mortification), occasionally shooting Lizzie dirty looks, certain that her least favorite daughter had ruined Jane and Bing's time alone together.

Mrs. Bennet had all but said that Lizzie was the reason Jane wasn't engaged yet. Lizzie had jumped in partially to defend her sister's actions and also because she'd seen Jane's blush and embarrassment deepen and had to find a way to take the heat off of her. As she was the oldest single daughter, this was easy to achieve with a few pointed sarcastic remarks and eye-rolls. And then their mother had jumped to asking about Lizzie's mostly nonexistent lovelife and then going on about how she would never "catch a man with that mouth and that attitude of hers."

It surprised Lizzie more than anything that her mother hadn't asked about her and Darcy at all, not even to ask how they'd gotten along. He was richer than Bing and handsome and eligible, after all, and she _had_ lived with him for a month. If she would've landed any man while staying at Netherfield, it would've been him, and yet her mother hadn't lamented her inability to secure him. In one sense, Lizzie was almost relieved about this because it meant no pressure, but on the other it was kind of insulting (and ironic) that her mother assumed a man she was actually sleeping with wasn't even interested in having sex with her.

It was hardly the first time her mother had given her that speech about finding a husband, but it had kind of hurt when Lydia had chimed in about Lizzie becoming a cat lady in a few years. Worse still, their mother had added that Lizzie was never going to give her grandchildren, that she'd die "a bitter, lonely old maid," and started in on that guilt trip. At least her mother hadn't gone with the "bitter and cold career woman" remark; she thought that was even worse than being a cat lady. And of course Lizzie would swear it 'til the end of her days that she didn't _**need**_ a man or a husband, that she could do without (which was, on some level, true), but she didn't really want to be a spinster or the lonely old cat lady aunt to Jane and Lydia's adorable children. She _did_ want to have children and raise them and grow old together with some wonderful man who was completely perfect for her and understood exactly who she was and what she wanted out of life.

But wanting that didn't mean it was going to happen.

She'd half texted Darcy out of spite, out of wanting to prove something to her mother, or maybe even herself, that she was at least _moderately_ desirable just the way she was. Darcy might've called her "decent enough" and thought that the whole town and all the people in it were beneath him, and he might not even like her at all (probably hated her too), but she was at least "decent enough" for him to have sex with and spend time with. Decent enough for one man, apparently, much less one as picky as William Darcy, contrary to what her mother always implied. She tried not to think about how sad it was that she was using _that_ ringing endorsement as a confidence booster.

Her self-worth was _not_ tied to her ability to land a man. It was **not**,despite what Lydia and her mother seemed to think and suggest.

She didn't even _like_ Darcy (most of the time); she kind of liked him when he was inside of her and giving her what she wanted, but that faded after the orgasm did. They were pretty much both using each other for sex, but, to his credit, she never felt like she was being used when she was actually with him. He didn't hurry her out of his bedroom right after, throwing her clothes at her, nor did he make pains to avoid talking to her before or after. He didn't ask her questions she was uncomfortable answering about her sexlife, and he never seemed bored when they were talking, even if he was quiet. It was, sadly, probably one of the better relationships she'd had with a man because at least they both got what they wanted out of the arrangement, and there was no... confusion or complexity.

Ugh, had she just thought about it as a _relationship_? She wrinkled her nose at the thought. She'd been biting her lip the whole time as she sent the message, more than half of her hoping he'd say no and give some excuse. Somewhat unsurprisingly, as he was a man, he said yes and asked what time. _Around eleven, meet me at the back door,_ she'd texted back after having a moment to think about it. Darcy knew where she lived, of course, despite never actually having been inside. He'd surprised everyone the previous evening by offering to help her and Jane with their things; she'd given him the predictable "what are you thinking?" look and said quickly that she and Jane didn't need much help with their suitcases, especially since Bing was already coming along to help.

To kill the time until he got there, Lizzie had attempted to read before finding that she was so wound up she couldn't concentrate on a single word she saw. Then she'd looked around her room and started cleaning up because he was coming over, and he liked things to be well-ordered, and she didn't need to give him a reason to judge her even more. But then she stopped, realizing that she was cleaning up for Darcy. Like she actually cared what he thought and, what, like he hadn't seen worse at Netherfield? Still trying not to panic, Lizzie went downstairs, walking through the house and inventorying things she'd have to watch out for—where the floorboards creaked, where people were likely to be, where the quickest path to her bedroom was.

No one was asleep yet. Lydia was in Jane's room, trying to extract information about Bing. She'd insisted that she and Jane were going to have a sleepover. Lydia had contemplated asking Lizzie for a minute but had rolled her eyes and said that Lizzie was probably sick of Jane and that Jane's life was exciting whereas Lizzie had just spent all of her time at Netherfield reading, making videos, and complaining about Darcy. She was more right than Lizzie wanted to admit. Their parents were in their bedroom unpacking, and her father would probably retreat to the den at some point, as was customary, before bed.

That survey of the house completed, Lizzie went back upstairs and tried to figure out what to wear—something sort of sexy but comfortable that he hadn't already seen. To her chagrin, she realized that she did not own much sexy sleepwear or underwear. She looked at her clothes for a good ten minutes, before changing into four different outfits before it hit her that she was being silly and ridiculous and, God, it was _almost_ like she cared. She suppressed a sigh of frustration and went back downstairs to start a load of laundry. All the while her phone was pressed against her hip, between her skin and the waistband of her underwear, in case he texted.

When eleven came, the noises coming from Jane's room had begun to die down; her sisters were watching some of the chickflicks Lydia secretly liked but pretended to hate. The lights were off or else dimmed. Lizzie had put her laundry in the dryer, kissed her parents good night, and had finally begun to relax. Even if she was leaning against the kitchen counter, phone in one hand, pretending to be looking for something to eat. She nearly jumped as the phone buzzed suddenly, and she opened the text to confirm that Darcy was in the neighborhood. While she waited for him to actually come to her door, she closed her eyes and tried to breathe.

A series of hesitant knocks sounded at the door, and, this time, Lizzie actually did jump. Her heart was probably in her throat, probably because she was terrified that one of her family members was going to come down randomly and ask her why Darcy was trying to sneak into their house in the middle of the night. She glanced around paranoidly, relaxing a little when she heard nothing, and opened the door. As predicted, Darcy was standing there, looking almost as anxious as she felt. He waved pathetically, and she motioned for him to come in, hoping one of their nosy neighbors (especially Mrs. Long) hadn't seen him. Darcy came in, his hands in his pockets, and Lizzie shut and locked the door behind him as quietly as she could.

He looked around the kitchen, surveying it idly as she did this, so that he wouldn't be thinking of what they would be doing later. It wouldn't do to be too excited. Then Lizzie turned around, and something about the way her hair framed her face in the dim lighting completely changed his mind. He walked over, as if in a daze, and bent down to kiss her, one hand on her cheek, before she knew what he was about. She was too surprised and embarrassed to be very responsive, and, after a moment, she pushed him away, blinking up at him. "What are you doing?" Darcy's brow furrowed in confusion, his hand still on her cheek, but Lizzie looked past him. "We can't do that _here. _All of my family's here. Anyone could walk in at any moment," she hissed, drawing away from him. The fact that she didn't want to have to explain this to any of them went unsaid.

He tensed; he hadn't thought of that possibility, but he couldn't deny that he didn't want to encounter any of them. The thought of having to explain his presence in their home, much less why he was there to see their daughter, to Lizzie's parents was singularly mortifying. After a moment of contemplating this horrifying possibility, he nodded. Lizzie looked a bit relieved, and she reached across the counter to snatch up her phone before wrapping her fingers around his wrist. He stilled for a moment, savoring the electric feeling of her fingers on his bare skin, before following her. In the kitchen doorway, she turned (barely giving Darcy enough time to take his eyes off of her ass) and put a finger to her lips. "Tread softly."

Lizzie led the way, eyes frantically and methodically scanning the halls for anyone else. It was, of course, ridiculous to think she could hide Darcy behind her, but she was good at distracting people, and if she let go of him... Even she knew that was starting to sound absurd. Though she heard Lydia laugh through the walls (a sound that made Darcy cringe visibly), they didn't run into anyone. Still, she didn't breathe easy until the door to her bedroom was shut and locked behind them. "So," she said in a hushed voice, gesturing around her, "this is my bedroom." He didn't realize he was holding his breath until he met her gaze, and it all came out in a whoosh.

He couldn't quite believe it, that he was actually _here_, with her. He was here, in the bedroom of her childhood, the room that contained everything he could've ever possibly wanted to know about her, if he just knew how to look. For a few moments he looked around her bedroom incredulously, taking in every detail and trying to memorize it. The bookcase soon caught his eye, so he walked over to it as if in a daze. Lizzie noticed but figured he was just starved for decent reading material. At least, until he kept looking.

Darcy was examining her bookcase as if he had all the time in the world, and it was making Lizzie increasingly antsy. He wasn't making a sound, just scanning the titles with a bit more interest than it merited. "I realize you've never been here before, Darcy, but don't you think we have better things to be doing?" Lizzie said a bit pointedly, glancing around her room, straining her ears trying to hear the sound of her sister's voices. Getting time to herself was comparatively rare in this house. Darcy bent down a little and looked up at her, not saying a single word. She stifled a sigh, not quite sure what that meant.

He bent down further, trailing his fingers along her small DVD collection. His fingers stopped on a box set and the expression that passed for a smile appeared on his face. He looked up at her, quirking a brow. "You like _The Stories of Ann Radcliffe_?" he asked in a strange, almost singsong voice. She could not, of course, know how much this meant to him, how much it reassured him that he was doing the right thing, to see the DVDs there. Up until that moment, he hadn't realized that her taste in film extended to non-Hollywood productions, but it was quite reassuring to see something familiar here.

Lizzie's brow furrowed. She wasn't sure what Darcy wanted her to say. She'd watched the miniseries on television when she was a young girl, once a year on PBS. Jane watched sometimes, but she was less riveted, and Lydia thought it was lame beyond measure, but Lizzie had been mesmerized. They weren't everyone's taste—hardly her mother's. Frannie Bennet hated period pieces (excepting ones that depicted the antebellum period), British ones most of all, especially something so removed from the present day. "Yes, I do. I know it's just a TV miniseries, but I think Ann Radcliffe's works are highly underappreciated, and..." Darcy was staring at her so intently that Lizzie faltered, rushing to explain and justify herself. "And it's award-"

Darcy actually smiled and finished the sentence for her. "-Winning, yes, I know." It had been before his time, but he remembered how proud his father had always been of the awards, how they stood tall and shiny in the cabinet in his childhood home. Lizzie blinked, wondering at the sudden warmth in his tone and expression. She fully expected him to say something insulting or to criticize her on her taste, but that wasn't what he did. His smile softened further, if that was at all possible. "They were my parents' favorites," he said quietly. Lizzie's brows shot up; it was probably the most personal thing she'd ever heard him say. He'd certainly never mentioned his parents before, at any rate.

He stroked the spines of the cases, brushing his finger over the Pemberley logo. He'd seen the movies so many times he could quote them word for word. The films were his family's legacy after all, and he felt closer to them when he watched them. He blinked hard; sometimes he got a little too emotional if he started thinking about the legacy... what his parents had left behind. He looked up at Lizzie, remembering very suddenly that he was in company and that what he was going to do after this did _not_ involve watching hours of old movies, and he straightened, awkwardly clearing his throat. She was staring at him with a quizzical expression, and he felt compelled to say something. "Ann Radcliffe was my mother's favorite novelist."

Lizzie blinked, not quite knowing where he was going with this. Most of her conversations with Darcy seemed to be like this, full of non sequiturs or, more often than not, harsh words. But when he started talking about real, personal things, she didn't know what to say. It hadn't exactly escaped her notice that Darcy never referred to any family other than his sister, and she'd heard whispers of things from Bing. Generally she tried not to wonder too much about it because the more she thought about it, the probable fact that his parents were dead, the more it made her feel sorry for him. She didn't want to make Darcy into a tragic figure, let alone be forced to acknowledge that maybe he had reasons for being the stuck-up snob he was.

Darcy, meanwhile, was lost in his thoughts. He hadn't meant to say that, to confess that much to her. He hadn't talked about his mother in years, his father either. It hurt still, after all these years, to talk about them. The miniseries weren't just special to him and their family because they were award-winning. His father, smitten with his mother almost since the moment they met, had chosen to adapt them in the hopes of pleasing her. His mother liked to disagree with that and had always laughed it off, saying, "There was nothing intentional about it. Your father was just always thinking of me in the back of his mind." The films were how his parents fell in love.

His mother, Anne Fitzwilliam, of _the_ Fitzwilliams, did not particularly like his father at first. She found him stuffy, boring, and an unaccountable snob, a techie dreamer who lacked his father's head for numbers and figures. His father was not then known for his social skills, and he was more into film and his gadgets than he was real people, a product of his rather unconventional education and the position he'd held in the New Technologies Division. It hadn't helped that his father, a young, untested CEO, had made an unfortunate remark at his mother's interview for the CFO position.

She'd had seniority and experience at the company that he didn't, so he'd been pressured into promoting her to secure his own position. Irritated at the decision that was being forced on him, he'd said something about Anne being a pretty, little empty-headed socialite, qualified on paper, and a good investor but not, perhaps, worthy of the position. He'd actually intimated that she'd secured the position by virtue of her family name rather than her skills—all without having actually met her. Naturally, his mother had overheard and had actively loathed him up until his ridiculous serial adaptation of Henry James' stories had been a financial success.

Eventually, he earned her respect, albeit very slowly. At the very least, she respected his ambition and the breadth of his focus from the beginning. They spent a lot of time together, the both of them too busy to date, hours and late nights spent at the office pouring over numbers and figures trying to grow the company and build it into the success that his father had wanted it to be. She'd helped with that, helped fill in the cracks and complete his father's life so perfectly and effortlessly, that his father had known for a long, long time that he wanted to marry her and couldn't see his life without her. She had taught him how to talk to people, how to schmooze would-be investors, how to be at ease in social situations, how to laugh and be less self-important.

And then one evening as they were discussing some new project (the serial adaptation of _The Mystery of the Forest_, actually, which he'd known was her favorite) over some particularly excellent wine from his favorite vineyard, Darcy's father had proposed. His mother had laughed, thinking he was joking. But then his father, so nervous his hands were shaking, had pulled out the little black box and opened it to reveal the shiny diamond inside, and his mother had almost stopped breathing, completely and utterly mortified. She was speechless for about a minute, just staring at the ring, its big diamond winking at her and mocking her. "Bill, I... I really don't know what to say," she'd said at first, shying away from him. Before they'd been pressed against each other, but now they were firmly on opposite ends of the couch.

As it sunk in with clarity, she'd found more words. "You don't love me... we barely..." She couldn't say they barely knew each other, because that was a lie, but they certainly weren't anything romantic. "We're not even _dating_, and here you are... telling me you love me? Are you out of your mind?" she'd asked incredulously, unable to look at anything but the ring's mesmerizing square diamond.

He'd reached out to touch her, reassuring her he wasn't and saying more earnestly awkward professions and things like, "I know how this must look, but I don't care what anyone has to say about it. We're already partners, Anne. I want us to be partners in life." Her jaw had actually dropped at that. Everything had been so unexpected, and so many thoughts were flying through her mind. One being, his mother told him later, that his father's earnestness was sort of endearing but also frightening.

"I... I didn't even think you were interested!" He'd pointed out, a bit confused, that he'd been using just about every excuse he could think of to spend time with her, and hadn't she noticed how pathetic and contrived some of them were? He'd told her he'd tried to tell her these things but couldn't get the words out before. When she thought about it, she could remember a few occasions when he'd come to her, stammering out something more or less unintelligible, but she'd written that off as his eccentricity. "How could you, Bill?! You just open with the proposal, just like that? Next to no buildup? You'd think you'd have _finally_ gotten some business sense after all of these years!" Her voice had grown increasingly hysterical, almost shrill, his father's intensity all too much for her.

He'd mentioned the many business lunches and dinners they'd been on together, the meals they'd eaten, the movies they'd watched, said it as if they were actually dating when she'd thought it was all for work or... hanging out with her friend, because that's what he was. He said it all so calmly and patiently, as if he'd arrived at this inevitable conclusion and had already mapped out their life together, with the utmost conviction and certainty. She would've admired it if he hadn't done it without asking her—one of his more unfortunate tendencies, doing things first and then telling her about them later when she had to clean up some sort of mess. Unfortunately, Bill was usually right; he just forgot sometimes about the implications of his decisions and how they affected other things.

"This is crazy. We haven't even kissed, much less done anything to even remotely resemble a romantic relationship, I..." She'd stopped then and forced herself to look up into his eyes. Anne had seen something there in those clear blue eyes that she hadn't before, or maybe it was something she'd seen before but hadn't known how to read or interpret. Either way, it was love, love deeper than anything she'd ever known. "How do you even know? How are you so certain?" That this is what you want, that I'm what you want—what she didn't need to say.

The words to turn him down had been on the tip of her tongue, "Bill, you're a good man and a great friend, but I just don't see you that way. Let's not make this any more awkward than it has to be." But for whatever reason, she couldn't say it.

He'd shrugged and said something like, "When you know, you know, and you don't want to wait a moment longer." His father was that sort of man, always knowing what he wanted and going after it. He'd taken her hand in his and continued, impassioned, "Any moment I'm not with you is a torment... I'm always wondering where you are or what you're doing or who you're with. I want to be with you always. I feel... somehow incomplete without you. You make me a better man, Anne." He'd kissed her hand, and he'd gone on to say countless things, being far more eloquent than she'd ever heard him when he wasn't discussing technological things.

After that, it was kind of impossible not to give him a chance. She'd ended up telling him that she needed time, and he'd immediately said he would give her as much time as she needed, that he would wait. She hadn't thought it would go anywhere, that it could only make their working relationship awkward, but once they'd gone down that road... it worked. Everything strangely fell into place and just... fit, and that was it for her. "I was in the middle before I knew," she'd liked to say. His mother had talked about these things a lot considering his age, almost as if she knew she'd be taken away from him too soon.

His father said he kept doing the miniseries not only because they were critically and financially-successful but also because with every serial he was falling deeper. It was a strangely sentimental thing for his largely unsentimental father to say (that side of him had died with Darcy's mother). His mother had of course loved them, had found no fault in them, unlike his father. They'd grown closer because of it, because she understood his artistic vision and had started to _believe_ in his work. With each series he grew in her estimation, and it was only a matter of time before the many hours they'd spent together added up to something. He'd already dedicated each one to her in his mind before he could finally say so, during the last one.

"My favorite is _The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne_," she replied, injecting a somewhat false levity into her tone. Darcy shook himself out of his thoughts, noticing that Lizzie was looking at him side-eyed. She'd wondered where he'd been; he'd looked thousands of miles away. It didn't exactly bode well that her room was already failing to hold his interest. "I like Scottish things," she offered with a shrug.

He nodded distractedly. There were thousands of other things he could've said, for once, but talking about it more, any of it, felt... personal, more so than he was comfortable with. Darcy turned away from the bookcase without saying another word, and Lizzie tried not to roll her eyes. She kind of wished he would just stop looking around her room and do what he came here to do. Trying to have a conversation with him before that wasn't an argument was painful; it made her feel like she was about ready to jump out of her skin. He took a few steps forward (towards the bed, Lizzie hoped), and then stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed the camera sitting on a tripod.

"What's that for?" he asked abruptly, pointing to it.

She'd hidden the camera at Netherfield except when she was filming, so Darcy had never seen it, but there was no reason not to set it up. She gave him a look, taking in his unease at just being in the same room as a camera. He stood up straighter, tensed slightly. "Filming things." Darcy turned to give her a look, not exactly appreciating her matter-of-fact tone. Like he didn't know what a camera was! Lizzie held up her hands, surrendering, making a face at him. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me!" Darcy frowned in some confusion. "I know you're some kind of big deal public figure or whatever, but I have absolutely no interest in making a sextape," she said, gesturing wildly with her hands. It was a struggle to keep her voice down. "So you can relax now. I do not want to make a sextape," she repeated with some disdain.

Lizzie scanned him idly, sizing him up, taking in the black jeans, pale plaid button-up, and suspenders (a mixture of preppy and hipster). His discomfort at being in the same room with a camera that was pointing in his general direction, even though the red recording light was off, was still palpable. She tried not to smirk. Darcy was probably the last person she could ever imagine having, let alone _making_, a sextape. "Not that you'd be into that anyways." He gave her a weird look, probably wondering if she was the kind of person who was into that sort of thing (even though the camera was facing away from her bed). Which was really the last thing she needed him thinking about her, considering how low she was certain her family was in his eyes.

His shoulders did relax a little, though, and he surprised Lizzie by moving towards it, fascinated. She didn't know it, of course, from a lack of interest and because Darcy virtually never talked about what he did, but he'd grown up around cameras and had the fascination with them that a son of two generations of producers would. "So, then, what _do_ you use it for?" he asked, surveying it and cataloguing its value, estimating the clarity of its pictures. It was small but of surprisingly high quality (but not too expensive), obviously well taken care of.

Something about him moving towards her camera, not quite touching it but close enough to do so, made Lizzie even more antsy and uncomfortable. She bit the corner of her lip, trying to remember what footage, if any, was still on it. The last thing she wanted was for him to turn on the camera and see her imitating him (well, not exactly the last thing. The _last_ thing she wanted to happen was for anyone to find out about them). She moved over to it to intercept him before he touched it or got curious.

"It's for a school project," she managed tightly. Darcy raised a brow in question. Lizzie forced a smile, wondering why they were really having this conversation, much less a conversation at all. Why was Darcy distracting himself with things in her room? He hadn't seen her real bedroom before, that was true, but she wondered why he'd picked the things he did—it wasn't as if he knew what a large part of her life books and filming was (almost all of it, sad but true). "My master's thesis," she added a moment later, a bit hastily. The idea of using the vlogs as her thesis was still a bit new.

Darcy nodded approvingly, and Lizzie could barely conceal her shock. Had she known about the value his family placed on graduate education, she might not have, but she didn't know much about him at all. He couldn't help but stare at the camera for a few moments longer, strangely transfixed, even as Lizzie turned back towards her bed, hair flaring out behind her. It feels like she's keeping something from him and that, of course, is nothing new, but it does kind of sting. Especially when he wants to know everything and sees it all so close at hand but yet so far. He isn't used to being denied.

Lizzie smiled awkwardly, mouth closer a bit more tightly than she liked, rubbing her hands together. "So..." she began in a voice that was equally strained, drawing out the word and glancing up at Darcy expectantly. It took him a minute, but he got the hint. He walked over to her slowly, mumbling something. He leaned in to kiss her, but Lizzie stopped him, holding him at arm's length. Seeing his face looming over hers had rendered her conscious of something; the fact that this was the first time she'd ever brought a boy (_man_, whatever) to her room for the express purpose of having sex. The realization was enough to give her pause.

She hadn't even brought anyone back to her room for anything romantic in years, probably since she was in high school. The last time a man who wasn't related to her had even entered her bedroom was probably sometime in undergrad. Aside from her perpetual singledom, this was largely because of the same reasons she was wary of bringing Darcy here. Strangely, she'd never had sex in her own bed before, much less when her family was around, and it seemed strange that Darcy, of all people, should be the first man.

Lizzie thought, well, she'd _hoped_, at least, that the man she brought back here would be a serious boyfriend, come to meet the family, maybe even something more than that, not just here for a quickie. It wasn't that she'd been saving this first-man-in-Lizzie's-bed slot for someone special. She'd mostly never brought any man back out of a lack of opportunity and preferring not to have sex in her parents' house. But, still, she'd hoped that she would love him, the man she brought back here, or that she'd be well on her way, that she would respect him at least.

But, then again, Darcy had been the first man she'd had sex with in years, which, God was _that_ a sobering fact. The first man in years, and it was an **accident**. And it felt like she'd extended it, prolonged it, dragged it out and past what she wanted, and she didn't know why. It wasn't as if she had a good reason aside from what, being so starved for good sex, for attention, for affection—what _was_ it? She was well aware that this was not the time to consider this, that it was, in fact, the worst possible time, but it made her feel... pathetic.

It didn't make her feel great either to think that sex had become so meaningless with her. It hadn't used to be like that, but waiting until she fell in love (or thought she was) hadn't worked out for her either... and this way she couldn't get hurt, so maybe it was better like this. But if it was better, if she wasn't risking much, then why did it seem so sad and... unromantic? She blinked furiously, releasing her hold on Darcy's shoulders, and she moved to turn away. She needed a moment to splash water on her face, to get her thoughts together, just a few moments away from him to think clearly.

Darcy wasn't insensible to any of this. He'd seen the way her eyes had changed, the way her face had... not quite fallen, but deflated... He knew something was wrong, but he didn't know what. He reached out for her, and she flinched when he made contact with her shoulder. He looked down, brow furrowing, and tried not to feel disheartened about it, but he was already wondering if this was a bad idea and if she'd changed her mind. "Lizzie," he said, slowly turning her to face him, "Are you okay?" His voice was soft.

She closed her eyes because she didn't want to look up into his face, partly out of fear that his usually unreadable expression would be kind or something gentler, something she didn't want or need to see right now. She didn't want that from him, that wasn't why she was doing this, so much as she actually knew the reason why she was doing it. She didn't answer, and she felt the pads of his fingers tipping her chin up so that she'd be forced to look up at him if she opened her eyes.

It took her a second, but she exhaled a shaky breath and made up her mind. "Just kiss me, Darcy." That was why she'd asked him here, after all. The less she thought about what she was doing, what it all meant, the better. He paused, looking at her, her head tilted up, her lips pursed, all of her stretching up and waiting. It wasn't like he wanted, but things with Lizzie rarely happened exactly as he wanted. He had his misgivings, but it was hard to refuse Lizzie something she'd directly asked for. So he bent down to kiss her, his fingers stroking her jaw.

His arm dropped to her waist, and she wrapped her hands around his neck, pulling him down to her level. Darcy wasted no time in backing them up towards her bed. She relaxed about the second that his lips found her neck and her knees hit the edge of the bed. Lizzie flopped onto her bed with him suspended over her. She pulled his shirt out of his pants, pushed his suspenders down his arms, undid the buttons of his shirt feverishly, before he'd even had the chance to push one of the straps of her tank-top down. When she was busy in the moment, doing things, she wasn't thinking about other things. He delicately dragged one of the spaghetti straps down her arm, his lips blazing a path across her skin.

"You don't have to drag it out, you know," Lizzie murmured a bit breathlessly, pushing his shirt to the side and bringing him closer. She didn't have the patience for it tonight, for his consideration. His lips froze, which was just as well because she was already unzipping his pants. She reached a hand inside, and he stifled a groan, but he grabbed her hand and pushed it to the side before she could do anything else. She sighed impatiently, backing up towards the headboard, and pulled her top over her head. She stretched and threw it to the side, staring at him hungrily as if she wanted him to do something already. He just stared at her, speechless, for a long moment.

He did that sometimes when she was fully or partially naked, when he had time and thought he could get away with it. It always made her feel uncomfortable, like it was somehow real when he looked at her like that. You didn't look at something interchangeable, at someone you were using, not really. Lizzie reached out for his chest, curling her fingers in his chest hair. She shifted a little bit closer to him, angling her hips up towards his. Her other hand curved around his side, her fingers sliding across his back, pushing him down to her.

The rest of their clothes hit the floor shortly afterward. They made it under her sheets because she didn't want to see the starkness of their naked skin against the warm, comforting fabric of the childhood quilt her mother had made from her baby clothes. It was the first time she and Darcy had had sex on sheets that weren't white (just about everything at Netherfield was white). The sheets were a dark purple, and Darcy admired the way her ivory skin contrasted against them.

He hadn't listened to her, rather predictably. This was partly out of preference, since he was methodical in all things. He didn't do this often, so he liked to take his time to appreciate it. She _deserved_ it, deserved to be admired and appreciated, and the fact that she shied from it, that she acted as if it were unnecessary, only served to further convince him of this fact. Obviously the men she'd been with before (he tried not to think about them) hadn't known what they were doing if she thought sex was meant to be this hurried affair, in-and-out, done all too quickly.

Darcy hadn't taken a woman back to his home in years (he _couldn't_), couldn't remember if he'd ever even taken a woman back to his childhood bedroom. He wondered if he would've amended that rule for her, were their positions reversed. Did he trust her that much? He didn't let himself wonder long because the thought of Lizzie anywhere in the vicinity of San Francisco was a dangerous thought, a thought that went beyond this moment and this summer.

Then again, Darcy had never been very good at living in the moment.

He was still mistakenly taking his time, lingering like he enjoyed it, like he got off on the slow exploration. In reality, he did; he liked frustrating her the way she frustrated him without even trying. She didn't want that. She wanted it hard and fast and, most importantly, she wanted him out of her room as quickly as possible because every second he was here was another second he could possibly be discovered, and she didn't want to risk it.

He had, however, heeded her warning about being quiet, though, not that Darcy was ever very noisy. He was careful, very careful, to move slow enough that the bed didn't squeak with his every movement. She was grateful for that, at least. She was enjoying herself, even almost starting to relax, practically buzzing with arousal to the point where she was starting to forget herself.

Then, naturally, something had to ruin it. In this case it was a few raps on the door and her father's voice.

"Bee, are you awake in there?" Lizzie was first to go rigid, but Darcy froze shortly after. His weight was heavy on top of her, his whole body still tensed. For her part, she closed her eyes, trying to convince herself she'd imagined it, that if she said nothing he would go away. Unfortunately for her, the lights were on, and her father could probably see them from under her door. It also wasn't like her to go to bed early. "We didn't get any time to talk earlier," he continued.

She didn't realize she was holding her breath until her father spoke again. Lizzie looked up at her ceiling pleadingly, feeling guilty. Her father had chosen now for one of their long talks? She let out an almost silent blue streak of swears that would've even impressed Lydia. Then she let out the breath in a weary sigh, and started to sit up. "Yeah, Dad," she called out a bit breathlessly, glad she'd had the forethought to lock the door. "Just gimme a minute!" She pushed a disbelieving, horrified Darcy off of her, grunting when they separated and swinging her legs over the edge of her bed.

She bent down, frantically sorting through clothes and shoving them under her bed. She pulled on the underwear she'd discarded earlier, slipping into an old sweatshirt of her father's that dwarfed her petite frame. "Darcy," she hissed, "get under the bed." When he didn't move at first, she motioned repeatedly, her fingers stabbing the air. "_Now._ You don't have time to make a run for it." He didn't even have time to get fully dressed, so he did as she asked, hesitantly getting down on his hands and knees and crawling under her bed. She bent down to his level. "I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you," she murmured, giving him an apologetic look before straightening. He wished she'd touched him, that would've made it better, but she didn't think to. The last he saw of her she was frantically remaking her bed, hair messily pulled back.

Of course he felt ridiculous and ashamed and uncomfortable, among thousands of other things, but what else could he do? The closet was the only other place he could've hidden, and this one was much less visible as long as he stayed quiet, especially as Lizzie arranged the sheets so that they covered the gap between bed and ground. It was a tight fit and would have been for any man, much less one as tall and broadchested as he was. He was lying half on his stomach and half on his side, crammed in between dust bunnies and discarded clothing. He attempted to cover himself as best as he could with the clothing around him, just in case Lizzie's father did look.

Lizzie was trying to catch her breath, having made her bed up. She scanned the floor for any evidence of a man's presence and was relieved to see nothing; her father was as observant as she was, if not more. She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and wished she could do something to cover up her flushed, hot cheeks, but she didn't have the time. She took another deep breath and hurried to her door, unlocking it. Her father raised a quizzical brow. "Since when do you lock your door, Lizzie?" he asked, giving her a look as he entered the room. "Did you have to prevent lovesick swains from coming into your bedroom at night at Netherfield?"

She rubbed the flat part of her chest uncomfortably. He'd hit a little close to home there. "Ha ha, very funny, Dad," she said sarcastically instead, after a moment. She fixed her father with a look as they headed towards her bed, and in doing so, she missed the way her father frowned a little. He'd heard something in her tone that she hadn't. "So," Lizzie began, sitting down on the edge of her bed on the side Darcy was facing. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

Her father sat down on the end of the bed. Darcy tried not to feel as if  
the bed was closing in on him and shifted quietly. "I actually wanted to hear about your stay at Netherfield," her father said, knocking his shoulder into hers. Lizzie opened her mouth, ready to corroborate what had been said earlier. Her father leaned forward, looking directly into her eyes. He had the same piercing stare she did, and it was unnerving to see it turned on her. "From your perspective," he countered. Lizzie swallowed, uncertain of what to say.

This proved to be the wrong thing to do, since her father chuckled. "Janie only sees the good, and I trust you to have a more... complete picture of your stay there. It wasn't all sunshine and roses, was it?" he mused. Lizzie shook her head, not entirely trusting herself with words. She was all too conscious of the fact that Darcy was underneath her bed, that he could hear anything she or her father said. Her father put a hand on her shoulder, frowning a little. "How was it?" he asked again. Lizzie looked away, biting the corner of her lip.

Naturally, Thomas Bennet couldn't help but grow concerned by this. It wasn't like his middle daughter, always so full of words, to be quiet. Lizzie always had an opinion about just about everything, and he'd gotten the impression in their few phone calls that while the creature comforts of Netherfield (and seeing her sister so happy) were nice, the company left a bit to be desired. She'd been changing. The Lizzie who had come back from Netherfield wasn't the same one who'd left home over a month ago. His daughter had grown up, but he couldn't help but wonder if she was growing up into someone he didn't recognize.

His blue-gray eyes twinkled with mirth. "What about that Darcy fellow? How was living with _him_ for a month?" he asked, raising his brows and giving her a pitying expression. He asked in a mocking tone that made it clear just how little he thought of the man who'd slighted his favorite daughter. Many people did not understand her father's sense of humor and took him for his word when he was being sarcastic. Considering that Lizzie couldn't recall her father and the man in question ever speaking, he probably wouldn't notice either. It wasn't as if her father had called Darcy any of the more colorful epithets she used, though he was clearly expecting a story about the man's infuriating ridiculous pompousness.

She'd gone just a bit rigid at Darcy's name, and her father had noticed. It wasn't by any means an uncommon response, since he frequently worked her up into rage and put her on edge. He'd rarely seen Lizzie so animated as when she was talking about how immensely she disliked him. Lizzie let out a breath, leaning back on her hands. "It was... _something_, all right. Not exactly what I expected," she offered quietly. There was no way she could possibly have expected what would happen. Clearly all that time running into him and being alone with him had made her snap. She hoped she hadn't turned red just thinking about it.

Thomas frowned. It wasn't like his daughter to be so quiet or downcast. Something about her was off, different, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. But she was his daughter, and she was entirely too similar to himself. He had to handle and approach her carefully. He knocked his shoulder against his daughter's, faking levity. "You didn't fall in love with him, did you, my little Bee?" he asked in a voice that was supposed to be half-jest. He'd even put on a bit of a Southern drawl because it usually made her laugh. The accent and the childhood nickname should have set her at ease. Instead, Lizzie's eyes widened comically, and she bounced on the bed several times. Darcy couldn't hear much, though he thought he heard one of them say his name.

"No, Dad, of course not!" She raised her voice more than she'd intended. Her face showed how clearly horrified she was with the mere possibility, and Mr. Bennet felt himself relax a little, though he wasn't completely at ease. Lizzie laughed a bit too loudly. It sounded almost hysterical to her own ears. "Like I would fall in love with someone I barely know," she scoffed. If Darcy hadn't been under the bed, she would've said she didn't like him straight-off. She realized a moment too late that the sentence had almost finished in _I'm not Jane_, and her father did too. The words hung awkwardly in the air between them.

Her father reached out to pat her on the shoulder. Lizzie tried not to sigh, crossing and uncrossing her ankles. She was a bit too glad he'd changed the subject. "I take it that means that you think your sister really likes Bing?" Under the bed, everything Darcy heard was muffled, but he heard his and Bing's names mentioned. Lizzie and her father weren't speaking particularly loud, so he couldn't hear much more, no matter how much he strained his ears. She tilted her head to give her father a look. This was Jane they were talking about, after all. After a moment, though, she nodded, smiling a little. "And what do you think of Bing?" She gave her father another look.

"You already know what I think of Bing, Dad." She tried to smile but wondered why she was feeling so down. Her father noticed the way her smile didn't quite reach her eyes, the way it despaired a little. Mr. Bennet leaned his shoulder against hers for comfort, and Lizzie's lips turned up at the corners. "He's... great. He was a great host, and he's the only person I've ever met who's as nice as Jane. He really took care of her, you know? He did everything he could to make her smile, looked after her when she got that cold..." she explained. Her father nodded, having heard some variation on these themes before from his eldest daughter and his wife, and motioned for her to go on. He sensed a but looming in the next few sentences.

"I can't think of a better guy for her. He's... everything Jane could ever want or need," she admitted, glancing up at her father with watery eyes. Thomas nodded understandingly, and Lizzie exhaled shakily. "It's all happening so fast, Dad," she whispered, leaning into him. "We stayed at his _house_. She says things... The way she is around him..." She thought about all the nights she'd seen Jane and Bing just sitting quietly in a corner and talking, or the way they looked at each other when they thought they were being sneaky and no one was watching. She thought about how her sister snuggled into Bing, how she hadn't ever seen Jane that happy before with any other guy. She thought about how Jane didn't even need to talk about him, how she just smiled to herself sometimes, like she couldn't believe her luck. Had it just been a few months since they'd met?

Lizzie remembered coming to Jane's room the night before she left. She'd wanted to ask her something. The door was open a crack, and she'd opened it wider. She saw Jane and Bing sitting side-by-side on her bed, talking in whispers. They were facing each other, holding hands. Bing's arm was wrapped around Jane's shoulders, and there was no mistaking the utterly look of adoration on her sister's face. So Lizzie had closed the door and gone back to her room, her question forgotten.

Jane told her that morning at breakfast that she and Bing had stayed up late talking, that they'd fallen asleep together, and that it was perfect. The way that Bing had smiled at Jane as he passed her her breakfast said enough. Jane had confessed later, when they were alone, that she could see herself spending the rest of her life that way, with Bing. And she'd believed her, because how could she not believe Jane? Or her own instincts which said that this was serious? "I thought I'd have time to get used to it," she said after a while. Her father wrapped an arm around her, pulling her into him soothingly. Lizzie sniffled. "As much as I hate to admit it," she said quietly, looking up at her father, "I think Mom might've been right."

She grimaced, pressing her face into her father's shoulder, and her father laughed. His laugh was a bit more wet than he would've liked, but he'd had his daughters all to himself for so long that he knew it was only a matter of time before he had to share them. He knew the day was bound to come, sooner or later, when some young men came and saw how beautiful and intelligent they were and stole them from him. "Don't ever say that, Lizzie," he said warningly. She smiled apologetically, stifling a pathetic laugh.

"We're going to lose Jane," she breathed. Her sister was falling in love, and he was a perfectly decent guy, perfect for her, and she couldn't find anything wrong with him. She'd faced this troubling thought a few times but wondered why it was crashing down on her at this particular moment. Her father nodded, dropping a kiss to her hair and rubbing her shoulder. If Darcy had seen or known what they were talking about, he would've felt a stab of envy, but as he couldn't, he was just wishing that their conversation would end quickly. "Sorry," Lizzie murmured, shaking her head apologetically, "I'm being silly and-"

It wasn't like her to be so randomly emotional, and to get sad over something happy—Jane finally finding a man who just might deserve her. Thomas bent to look her in the eyes, those blue-green eyes so like a perfect combination of his and her mother's. Their daughters were certainly the best of the both of them, but he sometimes allowed himself to think that Lizzie was the perfect mixture with her dark auburn hair and her brains and her sharp tongue and her fiercely protective nature. "You're not, Lizzie... but how about we both enjoy the time we still have Jane here with us, eh?" he said softly, his grip on her shoulder tightening. "Before that rich, handsome doctor carries her off," he added melodramatically a moment later, imitating his wife.

She glanced up at him, biting her lip. Then her eyes crinkled, and she let out a laugh in spite of herself. Lizzie nodded, trying not to look at her father lest she start laughing again. She took a deep breath and wiped her cheeks and eyes. Her shoulders relaxed a fraction, and she straightened a bit, pulling away from her father. She crossed one foot over the other, dragging the sole of her foot over her leg distractedly. At that precise moment, having seen this change come over her, Mr. Bennet decided to once again bring up the elephant in the room. It hadn't escaped his notice that the other gentleman residing at Netherfield had barely been mentioned, and it wasn't like his daughter to be silent or cagey on the subject of that arrogant douchebag.

"So, come on, what was it really like there?" he asked, knocking his shoulder into hers more suddenly than she was expecting. Her eyes widened a little. Okay, so he was working up to it. "What did you do?"

Lizzie relaxed at the question, leaning her weight back onto her hands. "I... made friends with Bing's sister, Caroline. I watched Bing and Jane make googly-eyes at each other a lot. I worked on my thesis." Nothing she told her father was untrue. Her father frowned a little, clearly expecting more, and Lizzie sighed, raking a hand through her hair. "I... read a lot of Russian literature," she added reluctantly a moment later, shifting her hips and watching her feet slide across the carpet. As soon as she said it, she fought the urge to grimace and ran her fingers through the tangles at the base of her neck.

Her father glanced around the room, wearing a vaguely quizzical expression. He noticed the books out of place on her bookshelf, new library books, the novellas stacked on her bedside table. "Not that I have anything against the Russian masters, but what brought on this sudden interest?" he asked curiously, gesturing to the titles at her bedside. Lizzie's tastes in reading material tended to be indicative of something. She'd come back from Netherfield different, a bit quieter, and he knew when his daughter was hiding something from him.

Lizzie shrugged, averting her gaze with what he might've thought was shyness. "What? I can't just appreciate the virtues of Russian literature?" she replied defensively. Ugh, was that what she was calling it now? She was sure Lydia would have something to say about it ("_ugh_, even your euphemisms for sex are totes laaaame and nerdy!"). She could feel her cheeks heating up and was suddenly aware that she should be trying to get her father out of her room as soon as possible because Darcy was still under her bed. Thomas cocked his head to the side, and Lizzie looked away. "Well, they're long. Lots of words. I like the... complexity, even if I sometimes feel like things get... lost in translation," she found herself rambling.

Her father raised a brow, and she met his stare with something akin to nervousness. She kept talking, saying whatever she could think of and praying her father wasn't about to see through her. It was like... the more she said, the more the onslaught of words and misdirection would obscure that she was trying to hide something from him. Or it would at least prevent him from correctly guessing. "The social awareness is interesting and... the word play is... masterful. I like its richness and realism... I like that it explores the depths of the human soul and its focus on suffering. That it's not overly romantic and focuses on the conflict between being and daily life. I like how Russian literature is, itself, a struggle against adversity." She gestured animatedly as she spoke, looking over at her father occasionally.

Thomas, however, was not fooled by the pretty, generic words. "And those are the reasons for your sudden... appreciation?" She narrowed her eyes at him and was about to say something sharp when she felt a finger trailing up the back of her heel. She straightened a little, tightening her jaw, and slammed her heel back into the fingers, careful to avoid the edge of her bed. Darcy drew his fingers back, stifling a hiss. He was bored underneath the bed, waiting for Lizzie and her father to stop talking. His attempts at eavesdropping weren't going particularly well—Lizzie couldn't really be babbling about Russian literature, could she? He took a deep breath, edging towards the opening between bed and floor.

Lizzie shrugged. "Had to have something to do." She looked over at her bedside table and around the rest of her room, suddenly noticing the books everywhere. _Fathers and Sons, A Hero of Our Time_, that stupid Olesha book Darcy had said was some kind of a masterpiece, a collection of Pushkin's epigrams, _First Love_. When had it become a thing? She crossed her arms over her chest.

"You haven't mentioned Mister Darcy much, Lizzie," her father observed somewhat pointedly.

She made a face at that name. "There isn't much to say, really." She stopped, amazed at how easily that lie had come out. Truthfully, she wouldn't have told her father their relationship (or lack thereof) had changed even if she actually liked Darcy. She liked to save talking about Darcy (and ranting about him) for her vlogs. She didn't talk about him very much with her dad except when she was imitating him to her father's amusement. Still, she knew a lot more about him now than she had the last time she and her father had spoken about him. "He was just... _there_. He was pretty much working all the time." She rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. For a moment she debated telling her father that she ran into him a lot or about how Darcy seemed to seek her out, but she decided he would have too many questions.

Realizing how tense she was, Lizzie uncrossed her arms, and leaned forward slightly, planting her hands on her thighs. "He was the only other person who wasn't completely conflict-avoidant in the house..." Her father's lips quirked up into a smile at that. "We argued a lot," she continued, running her hands down her thighs absently. Her lips twisted into a mocking smile. "At least he always had an opinion. Even if it was an _infuriating_ one." She limited herself into saying just what she'd said in the videos and nothing more.

Thomas noticed his daughter's restraint and raised his eyebrows but didn't otherwise question it. Darcy, meanwhile, had heard his name and a few hints of what she'd said and was less than impressed. He reached around the bottom of Lizzie's foot, tracing the underside of her heel and tickling her arch. She jumped at the unexpected sensation and jerked away. Feeling her father's eyes on her, Lizzie planted her feet on the ground and made a big show of moving around before picking her feet back up, out of his reach. The bed creaked. "Sorry, Daddy. I thought I saw a bug," she apologized, trying to slow her frantic breathing.

Mr. Bennet bent down slightly, opening his mouth to volunteer to look for it, but Lizzie just shook her head, trying to wave it off. She shook her head no a bit more than necessary; the last thing she wanted was for her father to discover a still-very-naked Darcy hiding under her bed. "I take it that means that Darcy fellow is still immune to your considerable charms?" Lizzie grimaced. She was biting the inside of her cheek, though, hoping she wasn't blushing. Her father had a way of seeing right through her. Her father shifted, unconsciously mimicking Lizzie's position. "I must say, I find it very hard to believe that any young, heterosexual man could live with you for a month and not fall quite miserably in love with you..." he drawled, reaching up to stroke her cheek.

Lizzie laughed a bit too hard and a bit too loud, looking away. She wondered if her laugh sounded as bitter as it felt. Darcy in love with her? Just the thought was ridiculous. Meanwhile, Darcy heard her laugh and was jealous. "You're my father. You _may_ be biased," she retorted, pursing her lips. Thomas nodded, smiling to himself. She was his daughter; how could he not be?

He rubbed his chin in contemplation. Something about this wasn't exactly sitting right with him. "Doesn't that man own a media empire or something? One would think you two would have a lot to talk about," he remarked, questioning. Darcy's wealth and its source was, not entirely surprisingly, a source of little interest to her. She was certain that any company he owned was not one that interested her, much less with his ridiculous hipster tastes. Perhaps even more strangely, Darcy rarely spoke about what it was his company did or his work itself. She wasn't even sure he knew she was a mass communication major.

Thomas was rewarded for his trouble by the sight of his daughter rolling her eyes. "He's not much of a talker," she replied, tapping her fingers on her thighs. "And I wouldn't be interested anyway," Lizzie muttered mostly under her breath. Her father frowned a little, though he couldn't say he was entirely surprised. "Why do you care so much about _Darcy_?" she asked, spitting his name out, like it was strange on her tongue. She made a face as she said it, hoping the weird and the overcompensating weren't showing through. Her hands tightened on her thighs.

"What, I can't be a little bit curious about one of the men hanging around my daughter?" he asked, raising a brow. He liked to wind up and embarrass his daughters too, after all. Lizzie shook her head immediately, ready to open her mouth and contradict that. He shook his head and spoke before she could. "He saw you more than _I _did this past month," he continued, fixing his daughter with that same look, the one she gave people when she was interrogating them or taking their measure. She looked down guiltily, trying not to think about all that had happened in the month she'd been gone.

Lizzie crossed her legs primly, holding her neck high. What was her father's point here? As she was about to find something to say to that, the man in question grabbed her ankle. It was both a reminder of his presence and silent, subtle encouragement to somehow get her father out of the room. She froze, exhaling slowly, and turned to her father. "There's nothing to be curious about," she said a bit shortly. "He's not actually that interesting." Despite what everyone thinks, she thought to her chagrin. Everyone talking about Darcy all the time sometimes made her want to tear her hair out. She was literally sick of the man.

That probably wasn't a great thought to have about the man she was going to finish having sex with. Not that (m)any of her thoughts about Darcy were the sort of thoughts one should have about a man one was having sexual relations with. Nothing romantic or sentimental, and very rarely even a passing reflection on his attractiveness. She thought about what he did to her body and vice-versa, but pretty much only while it was happening, so it wasn't particularly deep thought.

Her father was about to say something skeptical, but she cut him off by clearing her throat. "Um, actually, Dad, I was wondering if we could finish this conversation a bit later?" She felt bad for lying to him, but she couldn't very well say that she was cutting short her conversation with him to have sex with the very man she was trying to avoid talking about. Lizzie bit her lip anxiously. "I was kind of hoping to work on my thesis a bit tonight."

She saw the way her father's face fell a bit and immediately felt worse. He'd been hoping to spend a bit more time with her, to watch a movie with her or have one of their conversations, but this had all gone quite differently from what he expected. He'd been looking forward to talking to her for quite some time, having nearly lost his mind shut up with his wife, youngest daughter, brother, sister-in-law, and niece for the past month. Nonetheless, he understood when he wasn't wanted and nodded, rising to his feet. Lizzie kicked off Darcy's hand and all but leapt to her feet, grabbing her father's arm. "Tell you what, Dad... I'll spend all day Saturday with you. We can finish talking then, okay?" she suggested, squeezing his arm. Her father smiled a bit, pacified.

"That sounds... acceptable," he said, sizing her up. Lizzie smiled, patting her father on the shoulder. It was so like him. He looked at her, though, as if he were seeing her for the first time. It was then that he noticed that she was wearing one of his old sweatshirts. It had been one of his favorites, he remembered, until it had gone missing. He looked down at her, and she was still so tiny and slender but suddenly so grown-up; he could see it in her eyes. Like she had lived this whole life he didn't know anything about. When had that happened? "I missed having you around, you know." He was not, by all appearances, an emotional man; he hid his sentiment beneath rationality, under the surface. But it slipped out, just like that.

He looked deeply into her eyes. "Don't do that to me again," he said gruffly, finding his voice unexpectedly choked with emotion. Lizzie's eyes softened, and she opened her mouth, an assurance already on her lips. He stopped her, holding up a hand. Her assurance was worthless, though. One day she was going to leave him for good. He tried to smile, but he was sure it came out crooked. "I don't know if my nerves can take it." Lizzie chuckled, as he'd intended her to, and his smile turned a little more real.

Darcy had pushed up the bed skirt just enough to peer out. He edged forward a little, tilting his head as best as he was able to watch them. Lizzie's father leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead; she closed her eyes and tilted her head up dutifully.

Somewhat surprisingly, Darcy found himself blinking furiously. He could go months without thinking of his father's absence from his life, but then someone would say something or he'd see something... on television, on the street, wherever... and it would hit him all over again like it was the first time, that he'd never get to see his father again, that he couldn't have a talk like that or go back in time and change things... be better. He tried very, very hard not to let it get to him... at home, at work, at the places where his memories of his father (and his mother too, which was in some ways worse because the memories were fewer and more blurred, and, well... he'd been closer to her) were strongest. But it always got to him in some strange way just when he wasn't expecting it, and he certainly wasn't prepared for the pang when he was naked, hiding under the bed of a girl he was having secretly having sex with in her childhood home like he was a teenager.

For the first time, he allowed himself to wonder what his father would think of this. Grimly, he tore his eyes away from Lizzie and her father, unsure which of them he envied in that moment. He dropped the fabric back down, and took a deep breath, closing his eyes in momentary contemplation. The whole thing was ridiculous. His father would not approve of any of this. Not of his own conduct, not of the fact that he was essentially using her or letting himself be used or... he didn't even know what. He didn't allow himself to think about what his father's opinions on Lizzie herself would be.

She wasn't the kind of girl you did something like this to. She didn't deserve to be someone's shameful, dirty secret, to be someone he texted when he wanted something.

And the more Darcy thought about it, the more these same issues got to him. He was acting out of character here, with her. It wasn't like him or anything like the man his parents had raised him to be. He'd gone on vacation; he hadn't actually become someone else. And the more he thought about it, the more his own actions reminded himself of something George would've done without thinking. He could just picture his former friend now, laughing at him for having doubts.

"Darce, man, you're not doing anything wrong. You're not doing anything either of you doesn't want to do. You're not leading her on or anything," he'd point out, raising a brow as if to ask why Darcy was even thinking about this. "This whole thing was her idea... so you're not taking advantage," he'd continue. He would shrug then. "It doesn't conform to your weird gentlemanly "accepted courtship methods" or whatever, and that weirds you out... but why do you care?" The blunt question that left him stupefied. And then George would lean forward, regarding him intently for a moment in that way George had of seeing and understanding him at a glance better than anyone else ever had. After a minute or so, George's eyes would light up, and he'd clap his hands together, that smirk making an appearance. Then he would pronounce, almost teasingly, "You _like_ her," as if it were an elementary school secret he'd failed to keep. He could almost hear his voice now, repeating that oft-used phrase that had prefaced so many bad suggestions, "God, Will, you have _got_ to loosen up!"

Darcy made a face and shook his head as if to get George out of it. He knew George would approve of this, would probably laugh at him and berate him for making a summer affair seem like work or overintellectualizing it or getting too attached or some nonsense. That thought was like a pit in his stomach; he didn't want to do anything that _George Wickham_ approved of.

"Goodnight, Lizzie. Get some sleep," Thomas said, drawing away and giving her a meaningful look before leaving. He shut the door behind him, not taking his eyes off of her until it was closed. He would get to the bottom of the mystery later, he resolved.

Lizzie immediately walked over to lock the door, letting out a breath in relief. She sagged against the door, feeling guilty but more determined. She had him here, after all, better not waste the opportunity to have good sex while the option existed. She walked back over to her bed, bending down to pull up the bed skirt. "I'm sorry about that," she said breathlessly. Darcy was staring up at her, a bit wide-eyed, so she crouched down, holding out a hand to him. He stared at it warily for a moment before determining that he needed her help to get out from under his cramped, dusty prison and taking it.

She grunted, tongue peeking out from between her lips, as she pulled half of him out. He promptly released her hand and shimmied out the rest of the way himself. It was so ridiculous it would've been comical if he wasn't embarrassed and beyond certain that he would be all knotted up tomorrow. To her credit, Lizzie did not laugh at the sight because she was kind of mesmerized by the sight of his muscles tensing and relaxing. When he stood, she simply stared at him for a moment, taking in the full sight of him in front of her. She didn't look at him as much as she probably should while doing this, she thought, licking her lips distractedly. Her throat had gone a bit dry at the sight of him.

Darcy flushed a bit in embarrassment, uncomfortable at being the center of attention. He so rarely had her undivided attention. Even when they were... doing things... she had her eyes closed or her head turned away more often than not. Then, just as he was starting to get antsy, Lizzie came over to him and started touching him. "You're all dusty," she said, brushing her hands down his arms, over his shoulders. She slid her hands over his chest, traced her fingers down the grooves of his abdomen, down, down, down... until he reached out and grabbed her hands by the wrists, abruptly stopping her. She blinked in confusion and let out a nervous giggle. "You have a giant dustbunny in your hair," she said quietly, motioning to his head with her chin.

He released his grip on her wrists abruptly and inclined his head towards her. He wanted to feel her fingers in his hair, close to the scalp. She rubbed her wrists absently before reaching up carefully and plucking the dustbunny out of his hair. She held it up to show him, and he promptly turned to the side and sneezed as if on cue. Lizzie snorted as he mumbled an apology, dropping the ball of dust, and went back to carefully brushing any fragments of dust from his hair with her fingertips. "You and your father seem close," he interjected, because he needed to say something so he wouldn't kiss her or do something stupid like run.

She almost flinched; either way, the expression of displeasure and tension was unmistakable. His attempts at smalltalk were the worst. "Let's not talk about him." Darcy nodded, eying her. They certainly had better things to do. He reached out, placing his hands on her waist, and started pulling up the sweatshirt slowly. Lizzie held her arms up, wiggling her fingers anxiously, hoping he would go a bit faster. She shifted her feet, wishing that he didn't always have to make her wait, but, no, Darcy lived to piss her off, so he was taking his sweet time.

Eventually, however, he pulled the sweatshirt over her head. Lizzie hurried to pull off her underwear, lest he drag that out too, and she bypassed him to get under the covers where she knew his eyes would only be on her face and shoulders. She pulled the covers up to her chest and didn't look at him, not as he half crouched to fish another condom out of his wallet, not as he put it on, none of that. She only looked at him when he slipped under the covers. She moved over to accommodate him, and then his lips were on her neck, his hands feeling out the now familiar terrain under the covers.

He nipped at her collarbone, tasting her skin, when a thought occurred to him as his other hand was sliding over her stomach. He pulled back, and Lizzie's eyes shot open, all enjoyment disappearing from her face. "You said I wasn't that interesting," he said almost accusingly, staring directly at her. He said it in an almost petulant way, like a child would, and she almost laughed. Lizzie flushed a little more, wriggling underneath him just a little, wishing he'd kept moving his hands.

She bit down on the corner of her lip to prevent herself from asking him how much he'd heard. She hadn't said anything that insulting, really, which was rather surprising, all things considered. Lizzie let out a noise that was half-whine, half-grunt, grabbing the back of his head by the hair and pulling his face back down to her neck. "Well, what was I supposed to say?" she snapped, a bit short of breath. "'Dad, actually I think he's so interesting I'm doing him now?'" she quipped sarcastically. Her lips curved up into a mocking smile.

Lizzie felt rather than saw his distaste at her verbiage. His forehead rested against her shoulder for a moment, and she could feel its ridges same as she could feel his eyelashes fluttering against her skin. Darcy's lips stilled. She has a way of making him feel so damn small sometimes for such a large man, and she doesn't even know she's doing it.

She was impatient today, just knowing that something else was going to go wrong, so she pushed down on his back, her nails digging into the skin a little. Lizzie urged him upwards, wrapping her hand around the back of his neck, sliding her fingers into his hair. Darcy found that he wasn't much in the mood for dragging things out either. A kind of unpleasant feeling was sinking under his skin. So he kissed her hard, the way she wanted him to. All his words, even the prettiest ones, never seemed to get him very far with her; Lizzie preferred him silent.

And then, all of a sudden, he was pushing into her. He hadn't been like this in a while, she reflected dimly. Lizzie let out a noise then, in spite of herself, as he settled into her. It was a breathy, soft sound, not quite a moan but not a grunt either—something like uhhnf, mm. She sighed, arching into him. The weight of his frame on hers was heavy but more reassuring than she expected. Sometimes she thought it was nice that he was really there.

Darcy was still for about a minute, eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of her wrapped around him. He allowed himself a groan of deep satisfaction before he started to move in her. His movements were quick but measured, deliberate, so that the bed didn't rock with every motion. Lizzie shifted her hips to meet his with a slowness Darcy found maddening. They were both in a hurry, so it didn't last long, maybe ten minutes.

Afterward, they lay in her bed side-by-side, breathing in tandem and catching their breath. Her bed was narrow, far narrower than any of the ones at Netherfield. But not quite as narrow as that couch, Darcy thought with a wry smile. Lizzie was just glad that he wasn't trying to cuddle, as was his wont. They were already pressed up against each other from shoulder to ankle, and that was close enough for her.

Lizzie turned her head so she wouldn't see him or his clothes and think about the one thing in her room that didn't belong. But it was impossible because he was everywhere. She closed her eyes, to try and shut it out, wishing she felt better about this. Wishing that it was worth it, the way she sometimes convinced herself it was. But it still felt like a big mistake.

Darcy's thoughts were more similar to hers than she knew. He was staring at the walls and ceiling, and it had never been more apparent that he didn't belong here, in her room. It was like he was violating a law of nature by doing this, by being here. He glanced over at the clock. It was a little past eleven-thirty, and he should probably get going before one of the Lees questioned where he'd been. He was just starting to sit up, already thinking up his excuses, when there was a sound at the door.

A sound like someone was struggling to open it. Darcy froze, and Lizzie felt herself go ashen. "What the eff, Lizzie? Since when do you lock your door?" a vaguely peeved Lydia complained. She was used to barging in whenever she wanted, whether or not Lizzie wanted her there. Lydia started peppering the door with knocks. "Liz-_zie_!" Her voice went up in pitch a full octave, making both Lizzie and Darcy wince.

Lizzie couldn't actually look at Darcy, knowing what he undoubtedly thought of her and her family, so she motioned distractedly for him to start getting dressed and slipped out of bed herself. Lizzie pulled on her underwear. Lydia knocked harder. "Come _on_, Lizzie! I know you're in there!" Lydia insisted, growing more irritated. Lizzie was in the process of pulling her sweatshirt over her head, so she mumbled something unintelligible to stall. Once it was over her head, she turned around to look at Darcy, who was already mostly dressed.

He was wearing pants, suspenders up, shirt tucked in, in the process of buttoning up his shirt. She watched for a moment and then quickly looked away before he noticed. "Jane and I are gonna watch Love Actually, and we were wondering if you wanted to watch too," Lydia continued, tugging at the door knob. Lizzie stepped into the pair of shorts she'd discarded earlier and glanced over her shoulder to look at Darcy's progress. He was seated on the edge of her bed, putting his shoes back on. Lizzie went over too, to start straightening the sheets. "You know how much you love your Dar-" Lydia taunted.

Knowing how that sentence was going to end and seeing Darcy look up at the sound, Lizzie hastily dropped the sheets and hurried to the door. "Yeah, okay, I can't resist Colin Firth," she said pointedly, taking care to emphasize the the name rather than the name of the character he was known for. She was almost certain she was blushing. Darcy blinked, somewhat distracted. "I want to see the movie with you, but I'll just be a couple minutes," she said, raising her voice a little and hoping Lydia didn't hear the tremble in it. She bit her lip, trying to think up a decent excuse, "Just let me finish this paragraph! You know how I get when I'm working on my thesis!" She tried not to think about what Lydia would say about her using "working on my thesis" as code for sex.

She walked past Darcy to open her window and thus completely missed the look of alarm he shot her. Lydia huffed, disgruntled, somewhere in the background. Having opened the window as far as she could, she turned around to look at him expectantly, gesturing to the window with almost stabbing motions. His eyebrows flew up. "I sure hope you know how to climb a tree," Lizzie muttered, almost enjoying the disbelieving look on his face. Lizzie moved towards Darcy, grabbing his arm. "My sister's outside my door. This is the only other way out," she said in a lower voice, fixing him with a look. "Unless you want to somehow wait and sneak past the den when we're watching the movie."

The expression on her face made it clear just how unlikely it was that he would pull that off. Darcy was tall and not equipped for stealth generally. That and the likelihood of Lydia paying attention for the whole duration of the movie convinced Lizzie this was the best. Not that sneaking Darcy out of her bedroom window didn't provide her with a whole other level of amusement. She'd dragged a not-protesting but mostly stiff Darcy to the window when Lydia's voice penetrated the silence. "God, how long does it take to finish off a paragraph, Nerd?! And why is your door still locked?" she said, twisting the door knob. "It's not like anyone's going to come in, jeez. Everyone knows your bed has been empty for, like, forever. I mean, sheesh, who'd want to sleep with _you_ anyway?" she scoffed, more thinking aloud than anything else.

In other circumstances, the remark might've almost been amusing, if only because of how wrong Lydia was presently. As it was, Lizzie merely smiled grimly and tried not to bristle at the sting. She knew Lydia probably hadn't meant it like that, not seriously. Lizzie Bennet being perpetually single was a running joke, after all. Still, she was blushing, and she didn't want to look at Darcy to see the pitying look he was undoubtedly giving her. Ugh, he probably felt like he was doing a charity case. "You know I don't like to be disturbed when I'm working," she called out in response. It somehow felt like something Darcy himself would say.

Darcy was actually looking at her with disbelief rather than pity. He felt a little bad for her because of what her sister said, but he couldn't believe Lydia's bald assertion that no one wanted to sleep with Lizzie. It was strange to him that Lizzie didn't even contradict her, but her priority was probably getting him out of her room. He could see that she was embarrassed that he'd heard that and, probably, embarrassed about most of tonight, at revealing this much of herself. He had been too, for the most part, but he felt differently about it now.

He had gone into this wanting to get to know her more, and it finally felt like he was doing that. This was a big step forward, into her world, and he felt... privileged that he got to experience it. To be honest, he was also a little relieved to know that she wasn't always inviting guys back to her bedroom. Her clumsiness and the lack of planning indicated her inexperience in these matters. He surprised himself by reaching out for her hand. Darcy wasn't exactly smiling, not quite, but his expression had softened enough for Lizzie to be startled looking at him.

She held his hand and his stare for a moment before looking away and dropping his hand hastily. What was she thinking, holding hands with him like that was something they did? Some of the tension had eased out of her face, though. Then Lizzie started pushing him towards the window. For the first time, Darcy looked out. He was somewhat relieved to see that there was a real, sturdy-looking tree (an oak, probably) there, and that the ground wasn't actually so far away. He couldn't remember the last time he'd climbed a tree, of course, if ever, but it looked doable—though not something he'd want to repeat if he could help it. Then he moved past her and started shimmying out the window.

Lizzie ran a hand through her hair and tried not to laugh. Darcy turned back when he was halfway through, one hand on the tree branch and one on the windowsill. "We should do this again sometime," he said in a voice he hoped was casual. Like he did this sort of thing all the time. Lizzie was surprised to say the least, but she managed a nod. "But maybe at Netherfield the next time?" Darcy suggested with a wry expression. She nodded again, almost laughing this time. Then Darcy edged out the rest of the way as quickly as he could, pushing off the house and onto the tree, getting as close to the trunk as possible so he didn't risk breaking any branches. Lizzie shut the window and watched with rapt attention (she didn't want him to die or break anything. Him injuring himself escaping her bedroom was quite possibly the last thing she ever wanted to explain) until he was halfway down.

Then Lizzie went to unlock and open her bedroom door, where a suspicious and somewhat edgy Lydia was waiting. She was full of the predictable comments about Lizzie being super boring and nerdy and preferring books over people, but she was also giving her a look like she didn't quite buy the whole story. Lizzie's haste to get out of her bedroom, lest Lydia snoop around and come to any realizations, made her even more suspicious. And pretty soon Lydia was taunting Lizzie about locking her door so that she could touch herself and "Where's the evidence of your dirty, dirty deeds?" and "OMG, you totes _were_! Ugh, I hope you bought yourself dinner first! Your hand is probably the best date you've had in years!" and on and on, even despite Lizzie's somewhat shifty and progressively more irritated insistences that that wasn't what she'd been doing. Naturally the more Lizzie protested, the more Lydia teased her all the way down the hallways and stairs up until they reached the den.

Some time during all of this, Lizzie's phone, which had somehow wound up in the pocket of her sweatshirt, buzzed. She waited until Lydia was getting blankets to check. It was a text from Darcy saying that he'd made it safely down the tree and was in his car—in different words, more or less, but she knew how to read between the lines. She let out a breath and finally allowed herself to relax, relieved—though she didn't know if it was because he'd gotten out of her house without anyone knowing or because he'd escaped safely.

However, Colin Firth and the other actors soon proved an adequate enough distraction from these thoughts, and Lizzie wrote it off easily as relief that he was gone—a familiar-enough feeling for comfort.

- Loren ;*


	7. Under the Covers

So, I have to say that this chapter is particularly near and dear to my heart since it was the first chapter of this story that I wrote (way back when I thought this was going to be a one-shot or something) and the first I finished. And it's been with me since October or before that. So I apologize if it seems at all repetitive or if Darcy is out-of-character or anything because I wrote this chapter before I knew what the fic was going to become and before I'd seen Darcy at all. But see, I do keep my word sometimes about the updates.

The next chapter needs some plot-related revisions, unfortunately, but it's mostly done, so it should be up fairly soonish.

Anyway, this chapter takes place between episodes 37 and 38. So Lizzie and Darcy have kind of been doing this for a while, and this is sort of about the system they've worked out. I realized that Lizzie starts texting George somewhere around 36, but in a fit of something rather unlike me, that doesn't really matter to the plot of this chapter (and also because I think texting people is comparatively boring). What's really important time-wise is that this is before Ricky's proposal.

Also, it goes without saying that I do not own LBD. Or else you might see some of this in the plot of it.

* * *

Darcy flopped onto his back on the bed, still panting. After a moment of breathless silence, he sidled over to his still-flushed companion, trying to snuggle up to her. A mild expression of distaste flickered across her features. She didn't move towards him, though, nor did she make an effort to move away. Darcy twisted his neck to study her. Feeling his gaze and feeling self-conscious because of it, as always, Lizzie closed her eyes and pulled the sheets up higher around her chest. In a few moments he was going to say something and ruin the rare moment of peace and quiet, so she wanted to savor what she had left.

Darcy licked his lips, drawing up his courage. Sleepy eyelids fluttered. "Can I stay here tonight?" he asked in a voice that was half weariness and half pleading. It was partly that he didn't want to go through all the considerable trouble of getting home when he was already perfectly comfortable and partly that he didn't want to go back to his cold and empty bedroom. Then there was the other factor that Darcy wouldn't admit; it was getting harder and harder to drag himself away from her. The desire to stay had been quietly growing within him a little bit more every time they did this, but up until now he'd managed to refrain from asking. Truthfully, every time he wound up in her bed, he still couldn't believe it was really happening, that he was actually able to be with her like this with no strings attached.

The question was unexpected, and it jolted Lizzie into an instant state of alertness. Her eyes shot open in mild alarm. He'd never asked to stay before, and, honestly, Lizzie had never really thought he'd _want_ to stay. She would have never offered anyway, as it seemed to break the unspoken rules of their little arrangement. She was understandably worried that his constant proximity and her annoyance with him would overcome the factors that allowed her to tolerate him in short doses and cause her to kill him in her sleep in a fit of rage. When they were in his room, which happened comparatively less frequently, he'd never asked her to stay or indicated that he wouldn't mind if he did, but he was polite about it at least. She contemplated it for about half of a second before concluding that her original reasoning was correct.

He rested his hand on her hip, gently sliding it across her waist. Lizzie tensed at the possessive gesture but didn't move. Darcy glanced up at her imploringly, messy hair falling into his eyes, but Lizzie shook her head, unmoved. "You know that isn't a good idea," Lizzie said dismissively, looking away from him and over at the pictures taped to her wall. She tried to distract herself from the present by attempting to remember when they were taken. Having a man in her long-empty bed was really very strange.

Darcy frowned. "Why not?" he retorted, shifting in the bed so that he and Lizzie were hip to hip under the sheets, or at least what passed for it given their significant height difference. He was so tall that his feet were at the very edge of the bed, almost hanging over. Her bed wasn't as comfortable as his, a king with plenty of space to spare, but it made up for that in coziness. "I'm comfortable, and I really don't want to have to tiptoe out of your house, walk two blocks to my car, drive back to Netherfield, and sneak in my best friend's house like I'm a teenager. Can't I just sleep here and sneak out in the morning?" he muttered, burying the side of his face in the pillow.

She actually considered it for half a minute, but they'd developed a routine that worked, and she didn't want to upset that now. There was a higher chance of something going wrong in the morning since everyone in the Bennet household except Lydia and Lizzie herself were early risers. Her father liked to be up when the newspaper man dropped off the paper, her mother was up early to make breakfast and bake, and Jane was getting ready for work. Then there was also the matter of what letting Darcy stay would _mean_, and Lizzie wasn't ready for that either. "Do you _like_ to argue with me or something?" Lizzie exclaimed, shoving him. "You can't stay here."

He peeled his face away from the pillow, glancing at her shyly. "I do, actually." Lizzie's eyebrows shot up in astonishment. She even gaped at him a little. After a few moments, she closed her mouth, realizing it was stupid to be surprised. Whenever they fell in bed together, it inevitably either began or ended with some sort of argument. Lizzie would never, ever admit it to anyone, but a small, tiny, minuscule part of her kind of looked forward to arguing with him and even to the conversations they would have afterward. She so rarely had intelligent conversations anymore, after all. Darcy shrugged defensively, rubbing his shoulder with his free hand. The other one remained draped across Lizzie's waist. "You're the only person who dares to argue with me," he said, rubbing his thumb over the fabric over her hipbone. Lizzie shivered involuntarily and tugged the blankets up higher.

She snorted at his comment but relaxed a little; unfortunately, she knew all too well just how true that was. Lizzie frowned a bit; the way he'd said that made it sound like he actually liked the fact that she wasn't intimidated by him. She raised her brows, raising herself up on her elbows and shooting him a look. "Do you _really_ want to face my parents in the morning, Darcy?" Or worse, she thought, my sisters, cringing a bit when she imagined Lydia and Jane's reactions.

Jane would smile knowingly and assume they were secretly dating. She would ask why Lizzie hadn't told her and suggest that she and Darcy go on a (cringe) double-date with her and Bing, and Lizzie would be left with the embarrassment of explaining to her sweet, innocent sister how things _really_ were. Lydia would probably understand a little too well and try and have some sisterly bonding about it, which would be worse than explaining the true nature of her relationship with Darcy to Jane. Loud congratulations ("Who knew you had it in you, Lizzie?" and "You're a big fat slut!" among them) and inquiries and innuendos about bedroom activities would predictably ensue. The potential embarrassment for both of them was enough to make Lizzie want to bury her head under the covers. The only reason this was working was because no one knew about it, and if Lizzie had anything to say about it, no one ever would.

Darcy paled a bit at Lizzie's question. For a moment he had a flash of coming down in the morning, encountering Lizzie's parents at the breakfast table like a proper sort of—no, he couldn't think that word—but, given his present circumstances, the daydream quickly devolved into a nightmare. Lizzie's father, who enjoyed hunting and owned several shotguns, would interrogate Darcy about his intentions with his daughter, and it wouldn't end well since Darcy wasn't after anything serious. Lizzie's mother would start shrieking in her loud, Southern accent, cooing over him and his money and asking him when he was "gonna make Lizzie an honest woman." Darcy shook his head slowly. Flings don't meet the parents, wasn't that what George had said?

"That's what I thought," Lizzie muttered, shifting into another position. Darcy shot Lizzie a longing look that she didn't see. She was always uncomfortable afterwards, when clarity of mind returned and it was just the two of them in a bed, naked. She didn't feel vulnerable at any other point in their little trysts, mostly because she wasn't thinking, but she always did now, in the fifteen or so minutes, give or take, that they spent in bed afterwards. Maybe it was because all the pretenses were stripped away, and it was just her and Darcy in bed together. And that left Lizzie facing lots of questions and things she didn't want to think about.

Darcy edged closer to her still, his eyelashes fluttering. Lizzie glanced down at him and sighed; who would've thought Darcy liked cuddling? She watched him for a moment admiringly and then shook her head to break herself out of it. She nudged him. "Come onnn, Darcy. You should get going. You don't want to fall asleep here," she urged. Lizzie sat up and glanced over at the clock. It was almost one-thirty in the morning. He'd been there for about an hour. She reached over the edge of the bed, blindly feeling around for Darcy's boxers, which she found after a few moments. Lizzie slapped the boxers down on his chest, making Darcy jump a little.

He cracked his eyes open and glared at her. Lizzie rolled her eyes at him, reaching for the dress she'd been wearing earlier. She threw Darcy's arm off of her, pulling the dress on over her head in a flurry and slipping out of bed. Her feet hit the floor, and she bent down, hurrying around her room and collecting the rest of Darcy's clothes from her floor. She then proceeded to throw the clothes at him in turn, one after the other. "Get dressed," she hissed, well aware that the longer Darcy was here, the higher the chances were that he'd run into one of her family members.

Lizzie put on her underwear, briefly debating changing into pajamas before he left, which would look less out of place in the hallway. Darcy got out of bed and dressed sluggishly, buttoning up his shirt with clumsy fingers. Ignoring him, Lizzie made her way to her mirror, examining her appearance, which was considerably disheveled. She straightened one of her earrings, adjusting her dress, running a hand through her hair and fluffing it out so that she didn't have tell-tale sex hair.

Of course, it'd be of limited use if she ran into Lydia, who would almost certainly and immediately be able to tell Lizzie'd just gotten some, though in this case Lizzie's reputation of being perpetually single worked in her favor. Lydia wouldn't be able to call her on anything unless she saw concrete proof that a man had been there, and she and Darcy were very careful about that. After all, he hardly wanted this getting back to his friends either.

She frowned at her reflection, wiping off the last remnants of her lipgloss with the back of her hand, and at Darcy stepping into his pants behind her. When she had time to think about it, sometimes she hated herself for this. She felt bad about it, about sleeping with someone she didn't have feelings for and actually hated most of the time... but that was why she'd picked Darcy, aside from the fact that he was just about the only available single guy she knew. Really, it was more like Darcy had picked _her_, since he'd come onto her first, but whatever, she hadn't pushed him away, at least not after the first time. There was no danger of falling for him or getting too attached, and she knew Darcy felt the same way. After all, she was just "decent enough" to him, certainly nothing worth writing home about. He'd leave eventually to go back to wherever his home was and do whatever it was he did, and he'd forget all about her without a single backwards glance. And she wouldn't care when he did.

She would probably miss the regularity of getting laid, though, but it wasn't like she couldn't go without.

Lizzie glanced back over her shoulder. Darcy was tucking his shirt in, and Lizzie looked beyond him, bored with the sight. She spied his (pretentious and wholly unnecessary) scarf on the ground, strangely halfway under her bed, although she could remember taking it off almost as soon as Darcy entered her bedroom, after she'd sort of used it to drag him through the house. She sighed and went over to pick it up, not wanting him to leave it behind so that she'd have to think of an explanation for what Darcy's scarf (it was, sadly, a very distinctive scarf, probably hand-stitched or embroidered by some old lady artisan at a flea market somewhere) could possibly be doing in her bedroom. She turned to toss the scarf over to him, and Darcy caught it, briefly juggling it in his hands and then correctly wrapping it around his neck and tying it fastidiously.

She tried not to roll her eyes. The strange hipster fascination with scarves always reminded her of the frilly, lacy cravats seen in period romances. A lot of hipster-ism, she thought, was attempting to echo some mixture between the Romantic poets and the Beats, with Bohemian and hippie tendencies and perhaps the jaded self-loathing of the Lost Generation, and a social hyperconsciousness that had never previously existed. This made them predictably insufferable human beings, quirky but not much fun at parties except in an ironic sense. Ironic in the sense that you wondered why you invited them since it was apparently uncool to enjoy yourself, express emotion, and not regard life as a joke only you were in on.

She glanced over at Darcy briefly, musing that he was, at least, better than the typical hipster cliché. Sure, he was pretentious and judgmental and a snob and unpleasant and thousands of other things besides, but he knew a thing or two about life and how the world worked. He had his own beliefs, and they were things he actually believed without being told or obligated to. And he didn't pretend he knew more than he did or that he knew everything about anything. Plus he was clean and properly groomed without any really weird, obscure tattoos. Truthfully, if you looked at Darcy, he looked like the kind of guy you'd expect to be preppy and in some kind of secret fraternity, athletic in a sort of Northeastern kind of way, the kind of modern-day aristocrat who did crew and played water polo and had a vacation house somewhere in the Hamptons or the Cape. But Darcy was not a joiner and never would be.

Lizzie walked over to her dresser to find socks so that someone wouldn't hear the sound of her bare feet padding down the hard wood floors of the living room and entryway. She put the socks on while Darcy fastened his belt and put his socks and shoes on. His shoes were a pair of surprisingly nonhipstery (and not hideous) loafers. Since she'd been taking his clothes off and collecting them off of the floor, she'd noticed that said clothes were a surprising mix of vintage, the predictable ironic t-shirts, and business casual. Darcy, meanwhile, was admiring her clavicle and the adorable little birthmarks there he'd come to memorize as he spent more time than was strictly necessary picking up his messenger bag.

Lizzie made her way to the door, holding a finger to her lips. Then she unlocked and opened the door, poking her head out to see if the coast was clear. So far it was, so Lizzie left, quietly closing the door behind her. Darcy locked the door after she'd left, as he'd been trained, and sat down to wait on her bed loyally. He let out a quiet sigh and, after a few moments, lay back down on Lizzie's side of the bed. Darcy let his eyes fall closed and inhaled her scent thirstily. It was rare he had time to appreciate these little details, but he liked the way the smell of her lingered on his skin and clothes (and, when he was lucky, his sheets) after each little visit.

This too, checking all the rooms, was another part of the ritual. It was mainly Lydia or her father she had to worry about, since they kept the strangest hours. Lydia was, however, a very heavy sleeper, and her various habits meant she slept like a rock or the dead more often than not. Lizzie checked her sister's rooms first, cracking the door if it wasn't opened already, to make sure they were both sleeping. They were both safe and sound in their beds, blissfully and adorably asleep, a sight that made Lizzie smile in spite of herself.

Next Lizzie checked the hall bathroom, which was predictably empty. She then passed her parents' bedroom, stopping in front of it for a moment to listen to the sound of her parents' snores, or, more infrequently, their voices. Then Lizzie made her way down to the den. Her father was a light sleeper, prone to wandering the house late at night, and he could often be found in his den reading or in the living room watching TV. The light in the study was off, but she peered in anyway and found it empty. Then Lizzie checked out the kitchen and living room, which were also fortunately empty. The sweep of the house thus concluded, Lizzie returned upstairs.

She knocked quietly on the door, three soft raps, which was the code they'd established. Darcy grumbled to himself but got up anyway and unlocked the door. He looked a bit more rumpled and sleepy, but Lizzie barely noticed, brushing past him and quietly closing the door behind her. She briefly met his gaze; strangely, she'd found it a lot harder to look him in the eyes after she'd started sleeping with him. "The coast is clear," she whispered. Darcy nodded solemnly. She saw his eyes drop to her cleavage for a moment as if he hadn't slept with her less than fifteen minutes ago. Lizzie smiled awkwardly and then turned and walked over to her bookcase.

Darcy being in her bedroom, much less on a not entirely infrequent basis, was still rather surreal to Lizzie. Sometimes it hit her, and it was just too much. She occupied her mind by scanning the titles of the books, even though she knew them all by heart. Her hand stopped when she reached the one she had in mind, and she pulled it out. She turned around to see Darcy standing in the same spot. He'd picked up his bag once again and was now shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. Biting her lip, Lizzie pressed the book to his chest.

He blinked, slow to look down and take the book. Part of that was because his brain was still somewhat sleep-addled, and the other part of it had to do with him liking the pressure of her hand so very close to his chest. It was a well-worn copy of _Much Ado About Nothing_, which seemed strangely fitting. He looked back at Lizzie questioningly, and she shrugged a little. "You do like Shakespeare, don't you?" she asked archly. Darcy smiled, remembering several conversations they'd had about the man and absently stroking the cover with the back of his thumb.

When he looked back up again, the strangely dreamy look quickly disappeared from his face when he saw her looking at him expectantly. He remembered that he too had something to give her, and he reached into his bag, slipping the play inside. His fingers closed around a thick volume, which he pulled out and presented to her with a flourish. Lizzie opened her mouth, ready to ask him how he'd found it, if he'd liked it, but stopped herself before she could get a word out. Now was hardly the time to bring up such things. She turned to set the book back in its spot on the shelf. Fortunately none of her family was especially observant or prone to check her bookshelves, so no one but her noticed if the books were missing.

This was another little tradition of theirs. She'd give him a book as a pretext just in case anyone caught them together or found them to be too chummy. It was a thin one, but at least it was a better excuse than him dropping off some present for Jane from Bing. Books were deemed a safe-enough mutual interest. Sometimes, if Darcy could muster up the courage or if Lizzie decided she couldn't stand the silence anymore, they'd talk about what they were reading and what they thought about it. Darcy greatly looked forward to these conversations; he could only have so much intelligent conversation with Bing and Caroline, neither of whom read much. He especially liked the way her eyes lit up when she was expressing some opinion with her typical (albeit muffled) enthusiasm. She got so distracted sometimes that he could slip his hand into hers without her saying anything about it.

Darcy would've actually traded books with her if he had very many at Netherfield. As it was, though, he read the books she passed him dutifully, trusting her taste and quite enjoying getting to know more about her. He liked the books she'd read for her Literature classes best: the ones that were dog-eared, all marked-up, scribbled in, and highlighted. It was silly, but he felt closer to her reading them and the thoughts she'd written inside, like he was getting a glimpse inside of her mind. Lizzie knew his primarily classical tastes well enough to avoid testing him with anything too popular or Young Adult, and he usually enjoyed the books she slipped him, even if he'd already read them. "Thanks."

Lizzie nodded, rocking on her heels a little anxiously. The sooner Darcy was out of her house the better. She moved past him towards the door, but Darcy moved directly in her path, intercepting her. Then, before she could even open her mouth to say anything, his lips were on hers, kissing her goodbye. His hand swept through her hair to rest on the back of her neck, pulling her closer. The other hand found her waist, bringing her up against him. Lizzie kissed him back but didn't dare touch him or else she'd wind up flat on her back on her mattress again. She'd learned that from experience.

She grunted in faint surprise but opened her mouth to him, cursing herself for not expecting this. He'd gotten into the habit recently of kissing her goodbye like he thought he was obligated to do so or something, like he had a sudden need to bring a little romance to this for her sake. The kisses generally weren't very passionate, more along the lines of brief pecks, but he was putting a bit more into it tonight, tilting his head back and nipping at her lips teasingly. It could become a problem, and Lizzie had thought about bringing it up to him, but she didn't really mind it too much. Sadly being perpetually single is rather more often like being a nun than like a Ke$ha or Beyoncé song, so Lizzie had to take her kisses where and when she could get them.

Whatever Darcy's faults, and God knows there were many of them, he was a damn fine kisser and surprisingly good at other things. That was the main reason she'd slept with him in the first place and why she'd kept texting him late at night. Not every night, just every couple of days or so if he didn't text first. He texted her more than half of the time. Occasionally he would text her after having been with her the night before, which proved to be a bit too much for Lizzie more often than not. Like it or not, and Lizzie _didn't_ entirely like it, her head still went all fuzzy when he kissed her, and she forgot half of the things which ordinarily made him so objectionable.

Predictably, the first time he'd kissed her, they'd been arguing. She'd been so frustrated with him and the situation that she was nearly shouting. They'd been debating something literary, maybe. It was the first or second time they'd ever been in a room alone together, in the library at Netherfield fairly late at night. Neither of them had been able to sleep, and the books hadn't been enough to make either of them sleepy. One moment Lizzie was debating the merits of giving _The Master and Margarita_ a second chance, despite its absurdity and convoluted, unfinished plot, and the next he was inches from her, saying things he didn't even believe just to get her to argue with him. He'd caught her off-guard with a kiss that made her head spin. When they'd broken apart from lack of air, Lizzie found that her sweater was already half undone. Shocked and horrified, she'd slapped him after that, then he'd stared at her for a moment, jaw slack.

He managed to say something, something rambling (but about how he'd wanted to do that for a while and possibly apologizing) Lizzie barely remembered because she was already rationalizing her decision to kiss him again. Next thing she knew, she'd thrown herself at him and was dragging his face down to hers. And then hands were going everywhere, and he was backing her into the couch, and then the backs of her knees were hitting the edge of it, and his body was covering hers, and clothes were flying everywhere before she could come to her senses. And, unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately, depending on how one considered it), it had been very, _very_ good—satisfying enough for them both to forget that the door wasn't even locked. Which was why it kept happening, apparently.

Lizzie pulled away from Darcy, breathless and setting her heels back down on the ground. Their substantial height difference meant that she stretched up on her tiptoes, and he bent down, hunching over, to properly kiss. It had been very awkward at first. Darcy's eyes opened, and he stared at her for a moment without moving, his hand still wrapped around the base of her neck, lightly kneading the muscles there in circles. Then Lizzie cleared her throat, and Darcy flushed, looking down and releasing her. He took a big step back, closing his bag and adjusting it at his side.

He found, rather shamefully, that he wanted to touch her all the time now. It was difficult enough to resist the urge to brush against her, to sit next to her and let their legs and arms touch, or even to drape his arm over the back of her seat like what he wasn't, when they were in a room with other people. When they were alone, the urge to touch her was something he had to consciously think of suppressing, lest she think he was clingy. It wasn't the desire to kiss her and be inside of her, skin to skin, that was nearly overcoming him; it was the strange urge to do little things he had no place to do, like hold her hand or run his fingers through her hair or casually throw an arm around her or maybe touch her forearm in conversation.

He'd thought that once he kissed her, it would be over, the fascination gone. For a while, too, before he'd done any of that, he'd thought his infatuation would fade once he'd finally slept with her, that he would get her out of his system once he knew what it was like. It seemed, however, that the exact opposite had happened, and Darcy could almost swear that he was worse off in this respect for having been with her. He was afraid of this, of wanting more, but nothing seemed to be enough. Certainly not the stolen hour or two he'd get with her if he was lucky.

Once, a few days ago, he'd managed to get her to stay four glorious hours. She'd just left Netherfield, and he hadn't seen her in a while, a few days, so he'd been about to text her when she texted him around 10:40. As if she'd read his mind, she'd asked if she could come over, said that she needed to get out of the house, and it would be easier this way. She'd arrived agitated through the side-entrance they'd discovered a while ago one afternoon. Then he whisked her through the servants' passages to his bedroom. He didn't think Bing and Caroline knew about the house's many secret passages or had the curiosity to go discover them, so he took advantage of the knowledge.

She'd been strangely quiet and had flopped down on his bed virtually upon entering, collapsing like a ragdoll, closing her eyes, and making a face like she wanted to scream. He'd had the presence of mind to ask her if she was okay, and she'd sighed and opened up to him, ranting about an annoying childhood classmate come to visit. This Ricky Collins was always at home as Lizzie's mother's new favorite guest, and without ever having met the small man, Darcy was immediately and immeasurably jealous for reasons he would not dare admit to himself. What he wouldn't give to be a regular at her home, though the appeal faded as he thought of what unpleasant things that would entail, like having to deal with her mother and her younger sister. His only consolation, however, was the fact that Lizzie seemed to despise the man and was currently in _his_ bed.

He'd been patient; he listened and let her talk, mostly because he liked the sound of her voice, and it was rare that she ever had a great deal to say to him. It was rarer still that she told him anything personal, and he thirsted for the knowledge. He'd awkwardly patted her arm, hoping he was conveying the proper amount of sympathy, and Lizzie looked at him with a softer expression than usual. She stared at him for a long moment, and Darcy stared back, contentedly meeting her gaze. Then she mumbled something, a thank-you, perhaps, and next thing he knew she was bowling him over, straddling him and kissing him for all she was worth.

Afterwards, he'd turned and given her a back massage, easing the tension out of those taut muscles. Lizzie's sighs and moans from that were somehow more rewarding than the sounds she made during sex. Maybe because he knew he was actually making her feel better, content or happy or something close to it, rather than merely scratching an itch and temporarily satisfying her. Then Lizzie told him, actually _told_ him, she didn't want to go home for a while, that the longer she was out, the better. But he hadn't invited her to stay, knowing that she had to go back home or else her parents would wonder where she was. In hindsight, he wished he had, because it was probably the closest she would've ever come to saying yes, if she didn't actually say yes.

They talked easily for a while after that, of books and idle things which were pleasant but ultimately forgettable until they'd worked their way up to another argument, and then they were going at it again. He was pounding into her again, and she was so intent too that she rocked her hips against his and dug her nails into his back. It was rougher than usual because she was frustrated and had energy to burn. It had been intensely satisfying, and they'd lain there in silence for a while afterwards. When he looked over at Lizzie she was no longer frustrated, seeming almost relaxed and dozing.

He reached over, hating to do it, and lightly shook her, reminding her timidly that she should probably get going soon so that her family didn't worry. Lizzie had blinked up at him sleepily but nodded. She'd been a bit sluggish to get out of bed, and she put on her clothes with the same (deliberate?) slowness. Watching her, Darcy too rose and began to put on his clothes at a complimentary pace, half-hoping she'd give up or just fall back into his bed. They dressed, as always, in relative silence, and they made their way out of the house.

Then, as always except on the rare occasions when Lizzie parked closer to Netherfield (she avoided it if she could since her car was far more conspicuous on these roads), he got up and drove her to the local library, where her car was parked. Lizzie refused to even kiss him outdoors, much less in a more public place, even if said place was the deserted public library in the middle of the night. So Darcy was utterly stunned when he parked the car, turning towards her to say goodbye or something equally inadequate, and she planted both hands on either side of his face and was soon kissing the living daylights out of him. It seemed to be, at least in part, a thank you, although a part of Darcy wondered whether she was just dragging it out so that she wouldn't have to go back home or if, as he dared to hope, maybe she even just wanted to stay.

"See you later, Darcy," she mumbled, her lips forming a tiny smile as she turned away from him and exited his car for hers. He could only stare after her incredulously, wondering at the shy look on her face as she left. As usual, unable to repress his concern and gentlemanly tendencies, he watched her until she got in her car, turned on the lights, and drove off. It was ridiculous that he was afraid something could potentially happen to her as she crossed the empty parking lot, but he liked to make sure she was safe and headed home when they separated. If he thought he could've gotten away with it, he would've followed Lizzie or offered to drop her off at his house. But she'd always refused the polite offer, and he didn't want to risk her family seeing him dropping her off at a late hour and getting their hopes up.

Lizzie waved a hand in front of Darcy's face, impatiently shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Darcy blinked, snapping out of his memories, and she grabbed his wrist. She hesitated for a moment, her hand in his, before moving it to a less intimate position around his wrist. Then she cracked the door open, once again peering out to see if the coast had remained clear. She didn't exactly trust Darcy alone in her house, so she always insisted on leading him out. Darcy didn't protest because he enjoyed it, liked the feeling of her fingers wrapped around his wrist, tugging on his arm, so close he had to peer into the darkness to avoid trodding on her heels. He could catch a whiff or two of her stale, faded perfume then, if he concentrated hard enough, and sometimes he could even smell himself on her still.

They proceeded down the hallways and then down the stairs, being careful to avoid all the noisy spots Lizzie knew of, all the way to Lizzie's back door. Then she stopped, releasing his hand. Darcy flexed his fingers, wondering why he felt suddenly bereft now. She unlocked the door with a practiced ease in the darkness, some of the effort of twisting the locks showing on her face, her tongue sticking out a little, which Darcy found adorable. Then the door was open, and Lizzie was ushering him out, quietly muttering a goodbye, once again unable to look him in the eyes.

He couldn't help looking at her over his shoulder as he made his way through her backyard, but Lizzie always shut the door, cutting her out of his view before he'd even made it to the sidewalk. He could usually hear the locks click. He didn't know it, but Lizzie remained in the kitchen in the dark afterwards, watching him leave. She kept this silent vigil in order to make sure he was out of sight just in case anyone else came down and stumbled upon the sight of William Darcy stealing out of their backyard like a thief in the night. On the off-chance someone did come down, Lizzie could distract them from his fleeing form.

She had other reasons for this; she often found herself unable to sleep easy after Darcy had left, even after he had long-disappeared and might very well be back at Netherfield, though it should be easy. She was kept up partly by her thoughts and partly by her repulsion at what she'd just done. It felt somehow wrong and didn't sit well with her conscience. Sometimes, too, she was hungry or worrying about something else, and she didn't want to go back to a bed and a room that veritably reeked of his presence.

But sometimes, weary, she trudged back up to her room and flicked the lights off, kicking her socks off and falling back into her still slightly-warm bed. Sometimes, though, the smell of him on her sheets was comforting in its familiarity and in the fact that it smelled like man, and she fell asleep right away to awaken later on, late, cuddling her pillow, sunlight streaming through her windows... with the prompt realization that her sheets smelled like Darcy and needed to be washed.

- Loren ;*


	8. Between the Sheets

So, yes, the show ending is prompting my updating like a fiend, but I'm rather anxious to get this chapter out before Monday for the obvious reasons. Also, I can give you this chapter, and I have not finished the one after it, so I cannot, unfortunately, give you that. Not for a while, at least. And yes, sorry, this one is a bit shorter.

First of all, I apologize because this chapter is kind of an angstfest, and I almost wish it wasn't, but it's largely of the kind not related to Lizzie and Darcy's little relationship thing. This chapter is one of my favorites, and one of the ones I'm proudest of, and it has some things that I really kind of wanted to deal with in it, including some real kind of emotional gravitas. It sprang out of something meant to be a flashback before I realized that it was actually a chapter in its own right. I also do believe I'd written this before ever seeing Darcy, so again, I apologize if my characterization of him is off.

Anyway, this chapter occurs after the events of episode 42. I think I worked the dates out right and all that, but feel free to ask me if you want to know. I believe this chapter occurs the same evening that Charlotte actually leaves town, which is a Saturday and the night before 43 and 44 are filmed (the next chapter, unless I get impatient and post out of sequence, will take place right after 44 was filmed, so we get our first real mentions of GDubs entering the picture). So for anyone wondering at the lack of Charlotte in this fic, she becomes a bit more of a presence here.

As always, I don't own the LBD. Wouldn't it be a different show if I did (it would also probably be a show that no one watched, but whatever)? Anyway, I hope you enjoy it and, as always, I would so very much enjoy reviews, if you could spare them.

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One day, a while before everything goes horribly, horribly wrong (though perhaps that was always to be expected), Darcy got his wish. Exhausted from life, she'd come to him. It had rained that day, and she'd walked, more or less surprising him, late, around eleven-thirty, and super-short notice, and refusing his offer to pick her up. She liked walking, said that the damp air was good for her, and that was that. Half-frantic with worry for her safety and mental state, he'd been waiting by the kitchen side-door with warm towels when she'd arrived. Lizzie had been drenched to the bone, her clothes muddied, her hair plastered to her forehead and cheeks. Caroline would've had something brilliantly snarky to say about it, he was sure, and once upon a time, so would he... but instead he merely watched her, admiring the brightness of her eyes and the pallor in her cheeks, the beauty in her sadness.

She'd come here in a fit of desperation, practically having to climb out of the window to escape her house. She couldn't stay there one second longer, not in the room where it had happened, where she'd watched it all unravel. Her family's concern was smothering, even if it meant that Lydia left her alone and her father and Jane tried to shield her from the worst of her mother's rants. Lizzie had borne those with equanimity, out of some masochistic urge to punish herself, trying to get to the point where she wouldn't _flinch_ every time her mother mentioned her best friend's new job. Charlotte's words still rang through her head, echoing, driving her to the brink. The silence, despite her calls and messages, said more still.

Only now she was gone, and Lizzie didn't know when she'd ever see her again. If they'd ever speak. And, while she wasn't wrong, while she didn't agree... she should've done things differently, but she'd tried that, and Charlotte didn't listen and... she hated herself more sitting there on her bed, alone in her empty room, staring at the stools, than she _ever_ did after sleeping with Darcy.

She still couldn't believe that she'd just left without a goodbye. Like they were never really friends at all, like even that visit would've been too much... that she really meant that little to her anymore. And she had to find out she was gone and leaving from updates from Lydia and her mother, of all people?! She'd come here because she craved that blissful absence of thought, the way her judgment suspended itself when she was with him. She needed it _bad_, needed it more than any of the tea or books or jokes or alcohol in the world right now.

There was something fragile about Lizzie, something wounded, and he noticed, as he rarely did, just how small she was. He took in the dark circles under her eyes, dark like bruises, like she hadn't been sleeping well. She sure didn't look like she'd just come back from vacation. In some places her skin was almost translucent, just faintly iridescent. He saw the remnants of make-up half-applied, smeared on her face, black mascara running. As if she'd been trying to make herself look better than she felt. He saw the way her shoulders drew together, how everything about her seemed so inwardly contained, and he wondered what had made her this way and if he'd ever get to know.

She hadn't said anything, but he took her bag from her, handing her the towels, wrapping them around her securely. She shivered violently but smiled up at him through her lashes, eyes faintly crinkling at the corners. It was a tiny, grateful little quirk of the lips, but he felt the warmth of her smile suffuse him, hitting him right in the chest and radiating outward. He hadn't felt quite so warm and fuzzy in a long while, and he half-smiled back at her, unable to stop himself. Lizzie looked down at the puddle forming around her, and she glanced back up at him, her expression apologetic. Then, to his utter surprise and amazement, she started stripping down right there in the kitchen, muttering something about washers and dryers. He was only half paying attention, far more entranced at the flashes of pale skin beneath the towels, but he found himself leading her to the laundry room.

Lizzie mumbled something through the chattering of her teeth, about having to come back down later, but she'd dutifully poured the detergent in the washer and put her clothes in. Darcy was all too aware that she was naked underneath the towel and was hungrily eying the exposed skin before his eyes, so he barely noticed the swift flick of her twist that turned the machine on. That being done, Lizzie set her shoes down to dry and slowly turned to him, biting her lip. He stared back at her, feeling strangely placid, and wrapped another warm towel around her trembling shoulders. Lizzie's hands came up to cover his, her smile uncharacteristically bashful. Her cold, waterlogged fingers caressed the backs of his knuckles until she took the towel from out of his grip.

Then he took her hand, and they hurried upstairs. He didn't remember the way to his room or what happened before he got her naked. It was all one big blur of him closing the door behind them with a bit more force than necessary so that the door slammed a bit and the both of them froze, afraid of waking the others. Unable to stand it any longer, he remembered flinging her purse to the floor, and then he was tearing at the knots in the towels she was wearing. He remembered the last towel falling to the floor and the way she'd looked in the moonlight, all pale and naked and beautiful, how it was the first time she'd actually let him look his fill without seeming uncomfortable about it.

She'd kissed him with a hungry mouth, lost herself in him a bit more than usual. He'd been thrown by her sudden eagerness and enthusiasm. Oh, sure, he'd known she could be passionate, but he usually saw the cool, dispassionate Lizzie, the one who acted as if none of this was a big deal and none of it was getting to her. Sometimes he would see flashes of the frenzy of her anger, hard and shouty and so very up-close and physical at first before it would ebb away like a childhood grudge. It was strange, seeing this soft, quiet, vulnerable side of her, but it was more appealing to him than he'd ever imagined it could be.

He hadn't yet realized that this, the vulnerability, was what he'd really been craving from their encounters.

Except this time he could taste a strain of some desperation. He hadn't heard from her in days, in a little over a week, not since right before she left for her vacation, fast and frenzied that Friday night. He was beginning to worry in his own quiet, contained way. It made him edgier and more desperate to fill any idle hours he could potentially spend thinking of her and wondering where she was or what she was doing. So he buried himself in work, tried to get away, filled his time with meetings—anything so long as he didn't have to be in the house, surrounded by memories. He hated worrying about her because he knew he had no right and that he shouldn't be this concerned by any means, but he couldn't help himself.

Darcy was better at pretending he was okay than anyone had ever given him credit for. So he could quite easily pretend not to see that her eyes were red-rimmed, just like he didn't feel the occasional drip-drop of tears, not rainwater, on his face. Like he couldn't taste the salt on her skin, on her lips. He wanted to ask, but he bit back the words, telling himself that she would tell him if she wanted to.

Even though he didn't really think she did. He kissed her a bit sweeter to compensate, let her use him to exorcise whatever was in her, trying to fight its way out. After all, that was what they were doing, right, using each other? So why did that make it sound so ugly, so simple when it was not? Her skin was cool against his, faintly clammy still from the rain, but her mouth was hot. She crashed into him as lightning and thunder crashed outside, in the dark blue midnight. She all but threw him to the bed, her body covering his before he could so much as say a word, even if he could get his lips away from hers.

She came down around him, anxious, shaky fingers already tugging at his clothes, ripping away the fabric that separated them. The sudden fierceness surprised him, took his breath away, but he reveled in it in his own way. It was as if she was expressing everything he was feeling, everything he'd always felt for her, for the first time. She is not shy or bashful like before. She is overzealous and frenzied and fumbling and messy, damp, wavy, frizzy hair falling into her face as she slides on top of him, her hands more masterful than she knows. She presses him down onto the bed. Darcy is delirious with the mad pleasure of it, every minute of it, except he can't help but feel that something is wrong here.

Lizzie wanted desperately to feel _something_ besides the gaping hole in her heart that screamed that her best friend was gone, possibly forever, and she hadn't even gotten to say goodbye. She'd waited all day for Charlotte to call her or text her or... anything.

So she digs her nails into Darcy's skin, silently urging him to be a bit rougher with her. She kisses him just that much harder, so that their teeth almost knock into each other. Darcy's hands came up to rest on her waist, the pads of his fingers and his fingernails pressing reassuringly into her back on either side of her spine. He does his best to pull her down, but she resists, brushing against him teasingly, a flash of that mocking smile on her lips as she holds herself over him.

When he least expects it, when he was practically squirming, hips frantically arching towards hers searching for purchase (purpose), she pins his hips down with hard fingers. She settles over him, sinking down so suddenly that he can do nothing but groan. She moans too, can't help it, as he fills her up. It's not quite the same, but it's almost like being complete; at least she's full of something, right, even if it is _Darcy (_the thought barely even makes her grimace)? She twists and bucks her hips against his violently again and again, slick and sliding, searching for that release, that relief, that end.

They don't stop for quite some time, not until they were both sore and satisfied. An unaccountably exhausted Darcy fell asleep first, and Lizzie slipped out of bed, pulling on the first shirt she could find and going to put her laundry in the dryer. She did it mostly without thinking, but if she'd stopped to contemplate it, it might've occurred to her that it was the first time she'd ever worn something that belonged to him. She bit her lip, groaning a little as she moved out of bed; somehow she still had energy for this. If he could've seen her, the sight of her in his shirt probably would've left him speechless, and he'd have ended up saying something very rash indeed, his feelings running away from him and going before his head. Fortunately for Lizzie, who was nowhere near emotionally or mentally prepared for anything he would've said, he remained at ease, his sleep untroubled.

Lizzie was careful to tiptoe in Bing's house so as to not wake anyone. She made her way in the dark with ease, putting the clothes in the dryer like an automaton and wishing she could sleep as easy as Darcy. She stared at the clothes turning around and around and debated waiting there, growing old in front of the dryer and putting the clothes on right when the cycle is done and going back home. To where she supposedly belongs.

She knows she doesn't belong here any more than that, but...

But the empty bed that awaited her had lost what little appeal it had, and as much as Lizzie usually wanted to be away from Darcy... right now she'd rather be here, as strange as it is to admit that to herself. She'd come to him in part because she didn't have anywhere to go, and she wanted to do something, _anything_, to stave off the overwhelming feelings of being so damn alone in the world. He wouldn't ask any questions; she could trust him not to. He wouldn't treat her like someone had died, not like her family had, suffocating her with their care and concern. And more than that, he wouldn't give her a pitying look like he felt sorry for her, which would've been more galling than anything he could've ever said.

She contemplated the dryer for a few more moments until the cycle stopped, and then, like an automaton, she reached over and opened it, pulling out her clothes. Still of half a mind to leave, she flung Darcy's shirt to the floor carelessly and dressed silently. The clothes, fresh from the dryer, were hot against her skin, and it wasn't until she'd wrapped herself in warmth that she realized just how cold she really was. She shivered, wrapping her arms around her waist and hugging the warm clothes to her, thinking. Now that she had her clothes on, her conviction was wavering.

Lizzie didn't want to go home, where her walls were plastered with reminders of a friendship that seemed no longer existent, where she'd have to face the fact that her best friend had left her without even saying goodbye, without even a shoddy text message or email. She didn't want to have to go back out into the cold. So she got up and pried herself away from the hypnotic warmth of the dryer and the comforting, homey smell of laundry detergent (the same brand her mother uses), and then she made her way back upstairs. Though she had misgivings, she took off half of her clothes, throwing them on the floor, and crawled back into bed next to him.

She'd been alone for so long that sharing a bed with _anyone_, even Darcy, was a small comfort. Lizzie slid across the bed, seeking out his warmth. Reaching for his arms, she sighed and curled into him, wrapping his arms and the blankets around her like a cocoon protecting her from the world. She didn't need him, per se, but being here, with him, made her feel the tiniest bit less utterly alone in the world. Almost like he understood her (and, really, they were far more alike than Lizzie was ever willing to admit, and she knew it). It wasn't like her to draw support from this, from a man, from whatever this was, but something drew her to him then like a kindred spirit.

Darcy awoke when he felt her burrowing into his side, but he was in no position to do anything more than wrap his arms around her back and hold her to him tightly. He didn't mind, not even when he heard a rasping indrawn breath, like she was struggling not to cry. He wished he knew what was making her so upset, but as it was, all he could do was be there, silently rubbing her back, trying to soothe her the way he used to do with Gigi when she'd had a nightmare. Only he was good at that, and he wasn't good at this, and the feelings, while similar in their affection and protective, comforting urges, were not the same. He wanted to say something to her, only he didn't know what, and everything he could think of seemed inadequate.

She was hanging on by a thread and felt it, so how sad was it that this was helping her hold on? That, of all people, his quiet, reassuring presence was all that was keeping her from going over the deep edge? She still had enough pride not to allow herself to lose it in front of him, so she was doing her best to hold it together to save face. Darcy pressed his lips to her forehead, fingers running through her hair, and Lizzie closed her eyes, thinking it felt nice. But, as nice as it felt, she thought, eyes stinging, it wasn't _real_ and it didn't mean anything, and it didn't come close to making up for what Lizzie had lost.

A part of her wanted to talk about it, but she was sure he didn't want to hear... and not talking about it was all that was keeping her from breaking down completely. That was, after all, why she'd come here, not just because she wanted to avoid her mother's wailing about missed opportunities. She wanted to forget, and she almost could here. Then he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, his lips still resting against her brow. "You miss her," he said quietly, but not so quietly that there was any doubt as to what he'd said.

Lizzie tensed in his arms, eyes shooting open, unable to believe he'd just said that. Darcy's expression fell a little in the darkness, but he continued running his fingers through her hair, lightly massaging circles into her scalp. Her hair felt like silk, and he brought his head down so that he could sniff her hair, a luxury he was generally only accidentally afforded. Lizzie's eyes closed as she leaned her head into his fingers, but her body was no less tense. He'd said _her_; how had he known?

She couldn't bring herself to ask, but he answered her unspoken question soon enough. He drew in a deep breath, ignoring the way his chest rattled a little. "What you're feeling... it never really goes away," he continued, thinking of his own loss. The loss never fades, but it dims over time until sometimes you almost forget... as best as you can forget a hole in your heart. "You don't forget." Lizzie curled up tighter, and it occurred to Darcy that maybe he was only making her more upset. She was afraid of that, of always feeling like this, somehow incomplete, alone, adrift, having lost the best friend she'd ever had.

Darcy licked his lips absently. "It doesn't matter how things ended or who was at fault..." he faltered for words, feeling uncomfortably caught up as he always did when he thought of that particular childhood friend. Darcy thought about him more than he wanted to admit, and it brought all those mixed emotions Darcy tried to hide to the surface. "'Cause you can still remember the good times," he whispered with a faint smile Lizzie didn't see, tinges of nostalgia in his voice. The dim ache in his chest was different from the hollow ache he felt when he thought of his parents, but it was like a cousin to it, like losing a sibling, and it still hurt. There had been good times, lots of them, before the bad, and that was worth remembering.

Lizzie closed her eyes, feeling hot tears welling at the corners of her eyes. For the first time, she admitted to herself that she missed Charlotte and allowed herself to think about her. The rough quality of Darcy's voice made him sound so honest, like he really knew what he was talking about. No one else understood, not really, and it was strange that Darcy should understand her in such a way. Even stranger still, she did not doubt that he did.

"I know it... hurts now..." he began, resting his chin on the top of her head. Lizzie frowned, thinking that "hurts" was an understatement; it felt like half of her was just gone and the rest of her was screaming out at the loss. She felt Darcy's warm breath on her hair, the way he bent his neck so that his lips were a reassuring weight on her crown. He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the way his own chest shook a little as he drew it in. "But it does get better, a little easier to manage... with time," he finished, stroking her hair, tracing over the curve of her skull and feeling the soft skin at her nape.

Lizzie sniffed, her nose a bit runny from the suppressed tears, and made some sort of nodding gesture. She could've talked to him about it if she'd wanted then; maybe Lizzie even knew this... but she didn't. It would've defied the point. She rested her head against his chest, easing him onto his back, and bent down to lightly press her lips against the edge of a pectoral with something akin to gratitude. It was all she could offer him, a faint echo of his comfort.

Her lips did not linger, but Darcy felt their phantom imprint for days afterwards. He felt marked. For those few, precious moments, her hot mouth (her lips were warm, for a change) rested against his skin, directly over his heart, and Darcy felt it like a jolt of electricity, a new thrum in his pulse. His heartbeat thudded so loudly he thought the whole world must've heard it. It felt not unlike he'd been in a coma, a flat line, asleep for a million years, and this soft, tender touch shocked him back into life and feeling like a defibrillator. He froze at the thought, struck with the sudden bitterness of memory, the unwelcome reminder of those last, paralyzing moments with his father.

Here too was the helplessness of that moment, of feeling and thinking and wanting to say so many things but not having the words or knowing how, of knowing that that moment is key and brief and important and yet... Here too there were forces bigger than him at work, and he is powerless. In a different way, of course, but powerless all the same, driven on by a fast, rushing current he could neither stop nor comprehend.

Darcy closed his eyes, which had begun filling up, as if on cue, with regrets and wishes. Her body half-overlapped with his, twining around him as if she knew what he was thinking, as if she sensed that he too needed a measure of comfort. She trailed those tiny fingers absently down the plane of his chest, resting them in the hollow just below his sternum, and she turned her head so that her cool cheek, and not her chin, rested flat against his chest. Her breaths tickled, and the first few made him shiver a little. Lizzie relaxed and fell asleep soon after to the sound of his heartbeat.

He thought, at one point, that he heard her say his first name in a sleepy voice, but that could just as well have been wishful thinking on his part. It had been so soft anyway that he was likely mistaken. However, Darcy stayed awake a long time after that, staring at the ceiling, his arms wrapped around her back, one of his index fingers tracing the line of her spine. For once, his thoughts strayed far from the woman in his arms.

Lizzie's sleep was not uninterrupted, however; she awoke a few hours later to the buzzing of her phone. It was a series of drunk, ebullient, and mostly unintelligible texts from Lydia, who was just leaving a friend's party and wanted something. Lizzie stifled a groan; she was not in the mood to deal with her right now. But clarity was starting to seep in, and as she stared into the darkness, she caught a glimpse of her reflection, her face illuminated by the phone in the blueness of the room. She was not in her bedroom.

She blinked dumbly, registering the feeling of large, heavy fingers splayed over her ribs. Darcy, she thought dimly; he was the only man she knew with such large hands. She'd moved away from Darcy in her sleep, closer to the edge of the bed, so that just his fingertips remained on her. The sleeping heat of his body beckoned behind her, but there was almost a foot between them. She stiffened as a gust of his breath hit her bare neck. Darcy had fallen into a surprisingly sleep slumber and was snoring quietly, his jaw faintly slack.

Lizzie glanced back at her phone, thinking idly that she should get going as she pressed some buttons to reset alarms. She let out a breath in a soft whoosh and slowly surged forward. Darcy's fingers slid off of her skin, the pads of his fingers skimming the curve of her back and then falling to the cooling bed. She edged to the end of the bed, letting out a breath that she didn't know she was holding and beginning to sit up.

However, she froze when she felt the bed shift and a familiar hand grabbed her forearm. "Lizzie?" His voice was questioning and wavering a bit in the silence and stillness of that room in that moment. She didn't answer. Lizzie stared down at the phone in her lap, wishing she was wearing more than her underwear. Darcy moved closer to her, his grip firming up as he pulled her backwards gradually. "Where do you think you're going?" he asked. His voice was a bit brusque but not unkind, and as she sat there, she reeled a little, thinking it over. Did she have any place better to go?

Darcy eased closer to her still, so close that she felt his hot breath on the back of her neck and could almost feel his nose in her hair. "It's still raining outside. You don't hear the thunder?" he pointed out wearily. She hadn't heard the soft (and growing progressively louder) pitter-patter of rain on the old roof, nor had she heard the occasional distant rumbles of thunder, much less the more frequent flashes of lightning. At least, she hadn't until he pointed it out to her; now it all seemed deafening. She was still, though. Half of her was still intent on going, even though it didn't quite seem like such a good idea now.

"C'mere." He pulled her down slowly, drawing her back into his arms. "Stay," he murmured, his voice still heavy with sleep. He asked like a lover would, like it was his right. Of course, he wouldn't have asked if he wasn't half-asleep, but the filter between his thoughts and words was like fishnet, more wide holes than thin strings, loops, and knots. The fact that Lizzie didn't freak out or much register the question was similarly a product of her own exhaustion; if she had been more awake, the fact that he'd asked her to stay probably would've set off a full-blown panic worthy of her mother. Instead, she gave it a moment of thought before relaxing her unwilling, tired body back into his embrace, absorbing his warmth. Darcy pulled the blankets and sheets high up over them both. He sighed contentedly, burying his nose in her hair and slinging an arm down low and possessively around her waist.

He fell back asleep easily. When he woke up, the sun was streaming through the clouds, and he felt more well-rested than he could remember being in a long time. He'd woken up, feeling cold and somehow bereft, so he felt around his bed instinctively, reaching out for her blindly. He felt nothing but cool sheets and a faint warmth from where she'd been. He moved sleepily into the space where she'd slept, inhaling the fragrance she'd left behind, something tart and citrusy.

She'd left early, almost at first light, an hour or two after she'd woken up for the second time, from an unobtrusive alarm she'd set semicoherently at that point in the night when she'd decided she wasn't going to drive home herself home, not in the pouring rain. The pleasant sound of the rain falling lightly on the roof had woken her first, and she'd lain there for a while in the silence, wrapped tightly in Darcy's arms, waiting for it to end. She'd had trouble sleeping, had woken several times during the night, feeling disoriented. In its own way, his presence was reassuring, almost comforting; it helped ground her to the place and the moment, and, well, just for once, in this, her weakest of moments, it was nice not to be in a big, cold, empty bed all by herself. She hadn't slept with a man in a very long time, and never like this.

Lizzie had slipped out of bed, carefully extracting herself from his leaden limbs, trying to be as quiet as possible as she grabbed her phone and put on any stray clothes still lying on the floor. She then picked up her purse, her ears pricked for any noise coming from the bed other than Darcy's deep breaths. God knows she didn't want him to wake up, forcing her to have the awkward morning-after conversation that she dreaded... and if she just slipped out like this, undetected, maybe he would think last night had all been a figment of his imagination. As she slung her purse over her shoulder, she advanced towards the door. But she stopped when her hand touched the handle, and she turned to look at him, well aware of the perfect view she had from here.

He was sleeping on his side, his arms reaching out into the space she'd just vacated, empty. She felt the tiniest bit guilty watching him like this. His breaths were slow; he was clearly in a deep slumber, all but dead to the world. The sheets were low around his waist, part of the waistband of his boxers—light blue and expensive-looking, she noted—exposed. He was half-illuminated by the blue morning light, which emphasized the pallor of his skin, so like her own, and made him look almost as if he were made of marble rather than flesh and bone. His patrician features were almost as expressionless as they were when he was conscious, but there was a kind of relaxed softness to them that she had never seen while he was awake.

Sometimes, most of the time, really, she forgot just how handsome he was (he was easily one of the top five most attractive men she'd ever met, if she thought about it)... but it was most obvious in quiet moments like this when she had a bit too much time to herself and had a chance to study him. It wasn't something she allowed herself to think about or dwell on, really, and some of his other qualities were so very unattractive that they more than made up for his physical appearance. Lizzie frowned, biting her lip, thinking that he looked kind of sad like that, lonely, with those half-clenched fists. She felt half a pang of... something, and for a moment she half-considered waking him or saying goodbye in some other way, because that was proper etiquette for this sort of thing, wasn't it? Her consideration was brief, however, and she shut that thought and that flicker of feeling down almost as soon as it occurred to her.

Then she shook her head, shaking herself out of it, out of staring at him like he was going to wake at any moment. She turned back around and left the way she'd come, praying to God that she didn't run into Bing, or, worse, Caroline, while fleeing the scene of the crime. She picked up her still fairly-sodden shoes but only put them on once she'd made it to the back door. She couldn't lock the door, but she shut it and made her way through the damp, dewy grass, opting for the least muddy path back to her car. The sun hadn't risen yet when she was back in her car, headed home.

Darcy relaxed a little in her place. He cracked open an eye, surveying the room, but her clothes, purse, and all other traces of her seemed to be gone. He closed his eyes again, burying his face in the pillow, breathing in what little he had left of her, trying to suppress the unaccountable, crushing sense of disappointment he was feeling. As irrational as it is, every time she goes, he finds himself wishing she'd never have to leave again... and he knows he can't go on much longer like this, that he can't bear just having her in snatches and short doses.

And one day, someday sooner than he wants to consider, he's going to want it all.

But then, in that moment, the thought just makes him ashen, and he keeps it to himself, because even if he wanted to tell her... she isn't there, not anymore.

- Loren ;*


	9. Out in the Open

So, hello, boys and girls, here's the next chapter. I think I meant to finish it yesterday (some of you are agitating quite vociferously for the next chapter, which, honestly, rather surprises me, but whatever), but here I am. In my partial defense, I had the whole thing done about two hours ago but then had to piece together the last few paragraphs because of my stupid word processor acting up. Anyway, here it is, and sadly there is no more LBD. Oh well, I had a feeling I'd be writing this story long after it finished anyway.

Anyhow, a lot of you have been bugging me about dear George (I know, you're thinking "why on Earth is she calling him dear?" but he's a fun one to write), so here is where he starts to come into the picture. You'll see him in the flesh in probably two chapters. But, anyway, this chapter takes place roughly on September 2-3. And about a day after last chapter. So basically it happens after episodes 43 and 44 are filmed. Directly after 44 is filmed, actually. The great thing about LBD is that I can have exact dates for when all of this stuff goes down, just about. The next chapter requires a bit of polishing, but it should be up fairly quickish, though my life is about to get totes busy in the next week.

Anyway, this chapter kind of morphed into more than I expected it to be (the story has been doing that to me a lot lately)... so I don't own Amber, though I'm sure every one of you has known a girl somewhat like her... but I cannot claim to own Mrs. Hill. Or IHOP. I don't own IHOP. Or the LBD, obviously.

I hope you enjoy the chapter, and that it's up to your liking, and thanks so much to all of you who read, review, and follow/favorite me! Also, reviews are highly encouraged!

* * *

After filming the video, still marveling that she almost felt like herself again, Lizzie turned the camera off. She bit her lip, debating sorting through the footage and having the vlog ready. It was getting a bit easier doing this on her own when she didn't have her emotions wrapped up in it quite so much. She tried not to think about that and ruin things. Jane was right; she was feeling a little punchy, and she had lots of nervous energy to burn. And she knew of one very good way to do that, though she wondered if he was up for it.

As if he sensed her thoughts, her phone buzzed with a text from the man in question. _You awake?_ He didn't normally text her this late, and she was actually a bit surprised he was awake. She texted back an affirmative and asked him if he wanted to meet up at the library in fifteen. She wasn't really in the mood for all the sneaking around in and out of houses tonight, although her parents being gone, Lydia sleeping, and Jane in bed meant she wouldn't have much trouble sneaking out tonight. No one would even notice she was gone if she did this right.

Darcy agreed with a typically unenthusiastic response. Lizzie found herself walking over to the mirror, surveying her hair and make-up critically. He'd seen her before, of course, not for very long, but Lizzie refused to change her outfit. After a moment, she decided to let her hair down. She started removing pins and undoing the braid. An afterthought led her to spritz herself with perfume, just in case she was sweaty or smelled like stale beer. She found a pair of flats and grabbed a backpack, throwing her purse and some books inside. She always had to find a kind of excuse to give herself some plausible deniability, just in case.

She didn't really know why. Like she felt better about having sex with him if she had some pretext for it, no matter how lame? That didn't even sound better in her head. Lizzie suppressed a sigh, throwing one of the straps over her shoulder. She had to return some books anyway. She stopped in front of the mirror before heading out into the hallway, frowning at her reflection and fluffing her hair. Then Lizzie stepped out into the hallway, shoes in hand. She glanced around her and started to walk towards the stairs.

"Hey, Lizzie... are you going somewhere?" Lizzie froze at the sound of her sister's voice and barely managed to stop herself from jumping. Then she whirled around to face her sister, startled. Jane had just emerged from the bathroom. She made for a pretty picture in one of her silky pastel nightgowns, her hair down and wavy, her face glowing. There was also that little wrinkle of concern between her brows, the one that meant she would continue to treat Lizzie like she was made of glass.

Charlotte was gone, as much as she hated to admit it. And it hurt, not talking to her hurt... but everyone around her acting as if someone had died wasn't exactly helping either. Lydia's distractions, while well-intentioned, generally only made things worse because Lydia thought sometimes that it should be super easy to get over things. She had no patience for natural processes. And why would she, really? Lydia and Jane didn't have friends like Charlotte. Jane had never fallen out with anyone in her life. They couldn't get it, not really.

Lizzie nodded. It felt like her stomach had just dropped straight down to the floor. "Oh, um, yeah," she said, adjusting the strap on her shoulder and trying not to look at her sister too much. She didn't know what was worse, the guilt or Jane's pitying expression. Jane was not, perhaps, as perceptive as her best friend would be, or at least not the type to call Lizzie on whatever she was doing. That didn't mean, of course, that Jane wouldn't notice that she was acting strangely. Bing wasn't around to distract her now, after all. "I'm going to the library." Lizzie reached behind her and pulled a book out of the bag, attempting a smile. "I have to drop some books off before they're overdue."

Jane gave her a skeptical look, crossing her arms over her chest. Something was off about her sister; there was no mistaking that. She was sure it was because of Charlotte. After all, what else could it be? Jane saw through her sister's brave front. Lizzie was great at acting like things didn't bother her, like she was in control and had everything together. But it was easier to see through if you put all the facts together. Lizzie had barely left her room in three days. She'd spent most of Wednesday and Thursday crying, her door locked. She'd barely come out for meals, and Jane knew just from looking at Lizzie that she hadn't had a good night's sleep since she'd come back from her vacation.

There were, of course, things Jane didn't notice, though, like Lizzie disappearing and coming back early in the morning... the rain-soaked shoes the only sign that it had happened at all.

Lizzie tried very hard not to avert her gaze like she wanted to. The more she started talking, the more it would become apparent that she was hiding something. She'd rather Jane just think it was something related to her best friend's absence. Jane let out a rather loud and indelicate yawn, the kind that would've made her apologize if she were in someone else's presence. "At almost three in the morning? Really?"

Lizzie nodded again, quickly, anxiously. "Yeah. I... just remembered." She tried not to cringe as she thought about how horrible an explanation that was. She didn't want to edit the video now or lie back and stare at her ceiling unblinkingly for hours the way she knew she would if she didn't get out of the house and work off the energy she had to spare. But Lizzie knew there was one thing Jane wouldn't question. She hated having to use it like this, though, but maybe she should use it to excuse the best escape she had. Lizzie bit her lip and then went for it, "With everything with Charlotte and... Ricky..." She had to force herself to say the names. She looked down, letting out a sigh. "I've kind of had a lot on my mind."

Jane's expression softened predictably, turning even more sympathetic. Lizzie bit down harder on her bottom lip. She hated lying to Jane. Jane reached out to pat Lizzie on the shoulder. "I know, sweetie," she said understandingly. Jane's kindness just made it worse. Jane chewed on the inside of her cheek thoughtfully, tilting her head to the side and giving Lizzie her full attention. She still looked out-of-sorts, pale but with dark circles under her eyes. Lizzie was more fragile than she looked, and she looked so breakable and worn out just then. "Can I do anything for you?" Jane asked, wishing she could do something for her sister, wishing she could somehow split Lizzie's pain or make it go away.

Lizzie shook her head, looking away. Her sister's overwhelming sympathy was a bit too much, and she didn't even deserve it, not when she was using Charlotte's absence to get laid. Jane had done more than enough for her recently, and Lizzie had always felt uncomfortable asking other people to do things for her, even if they wanted to. She attempted a smile. "No, I don't think so. I'll... I won't be gone too long," she said distractedly, working out in her head how she was going to get there. She was already looking down the hall longingly, looking past Jane. Jane cleared her throat, and that little wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows. Lizzie shrugged, trying not to look too much of any one emotion. "I'm too wired to really sleep right now anyway. Maybe I'll go to Walmart or IHOP if I'm not too tired..."

Jane's brow furrowed further. "You haven't been sleeping well lately," she pointed out, looking Lizzie in the eyes. It was strange of her to be so direct, but she was evidently very worried, judging from the way she put her hands on her hips. Lizzie looked away, further down the hall, but didn't deny it. The dark circles spoke for themselves. Lizzie shrugged noncommittally yet again, turning away from Jane, fidgeting more than she ought to. Jane frowned, pursing her lips, and then, after a moment, her eyes brightened with an idea. "I'll come with you!" she exclaimed.

A wide-eyed Lizzie turned abruptly to look at her older sister. She cleared her throat, uncomfortable. "Oh, you don't have to do that!" Lizzie attempted to insist, wavering her sister off. She hoped to God that her voice sounded casual and breezy so that Jane didn't realize she was hiding something much bigger than her pain. Of course, Jane gave her the big-sister-look, tilting her head to the side a little, but Lizzie was prepared for it, resolved on her course of action. She was going to have sex with Darcy tonight and potentially pump him for information about George.

The thought of going back to Netherfield after staying over (had she just snuck in from that early this morning? It felt like ages ago) made her a bit wary, so she wasn't going to back there, she'd decided. She couldn't very well sneak Darcy in here, what with the way everyone was watching her and coming into her room at all hours thinking her depressed. And Lizzie had moped at home for long enough; she needed to be out, anywhere but staring at her four white walls and the camera that had upturned her life. Her palms were sweaty, but she didn't seem as nervous and jittery as she was, even as she calmly wiped her hands on her dress. "Really, Jane, I'll be fine. I'm not made of glass." She put a little more edge in her voice, just in case.

Jane gave her a beseeching look—you need me, it said. It spoke of greater uncertainty. Jane wished she could do something for her sister, and she would if she could, of course, but she'd never seen her like this before. Lizzie and Charlotte had never fought for more than a day before, and they'd almost never gone this long without speaking. Jane just didn't know what Lizzie wanted, and she was... not quite at her wit's end, trying to figure it out... but it hurt, not being able to help her like she wanted.

In truth, though Jane had always been the big sister and took care of her younger siblings, Lizzie was the one who made you laugh when you were crying. Lizzie was the one who gave advice and helped you come to a decision about things. Lizzie was and always had been the strong one in their family... stubborn and independent and outspoken and unafraid to stand up to anyone. And Lizzie was the protective one, the proactive one, because everything about her was fierce and brave, and Lizzie didn't even see how special she was. Nor, Jane supposed, did her younger sister realize that she and Lydia sometimes wondered if they were just paler shades of Lizzie. Lydia imitated Lizzie in her own loud way, made herself the life of the party, and Jane, well, she made herself dependable, the family rock. She had learned to smooth over rough edges and mediate conflicts and distract all with grace and delicacy.

Lizzie straightened rather abruptly. Her eyes were still a bit wide, making her still look a bit startled. "It's fine, Jane. I don't need you to come with me," she said a bit too harshly, wanting nothing more than for Jane to stop talking and asking questions. Jane's jaw went a little slack, but she was otherwise very, very still, reminding herself that people lash out when they're hurt. Lizzie winced, regretting the words as soon as they'd come out of her mouth. She started to hastily make amends, talking fast. "I mean, you're in your pajamas already... Besides, you have work tomorrow, and you need your rest," Lizzie said, gesturing to Jane's nightgown, reaching out to soothe her.

Jane gave Lizzie another suspicious look, staring at her in silence for a long moment. Lizzie was definitely hiding something; she was far too on-edge not to be. The question, however, was what. Jane was good at reading people in her own way, but not quite as perceptive as Lizzie herself. Excepting Darcy, Jane supposed. Thinking of Darcy reminded her of the subject of their video. Yes, Lizzie had been acting strangely even then, and she had been acting this way since encountering George Wickham at Carter's. Jane hadn't been blind to the way George looked at her sister, or the fact that Lizzie was flirting with him. George had been all Lizzie wanted to talk about for days, really. Then Jane wrinkled her nose a little as it came to her, her eyes widening. "You're not trying to... sneak out to see a boy, are you?"

Lizzie snorted loudly, trying to bely her nerves. She felt hot, as if she'd blushed or paled, and she hoped it didn't show. She really did not want to have to talk to anyone about this, but particularly not Jane, who would never understand. "Like who?" she scoffed, as if the mere thought were ridiculous, as it would've been under ordinary circumstances. It was actually kind of strange to consider; it was the very first time she'd ever sneaked out in the middle of the night to see a boy—a man. Darcy was a man, even if everything else about this spoke of her acting like a stupid, impulsive teenager. "When have I _ever_ snuck out of the house to see a boy?" She fell into a series of fake, nearly hysterical laughs, hoping the noise would cover up her deceit. Ugh, Lydia was right. She was not a great liar at all.

Jane gave her a pointed look, tapping a finger against her lips, contemplating it. "Oh, I don't know, someone like George Wickham, perhaps?" she suggested, staring at Lizzie. Lizzie's shoulders relaxed slightly. She did like George, and they'd been pretty cozy before. Ordinarily the teasing might've gotten to Lizzie a little bit, but at the moment she was just beyond _relieved_ that Jane had absolutely no idea who she was really going to see. Apparently she and Darcy were better actors than she'd credited them for being. Jane grinned knowingly. "You two seemed to like each other a lot. All that talking and flirting and the jokes."

Lizzie shrugged, blushing a little in spite of herself. She hadn't thought too much about George since coming back from the bar. She liked being around him, sure, and they had vague plans to hang out in the next few days. But as far as Lizzie was concerned, it didn't mean anything until it actually came to pass. Despite the texting, she really didn't know George too well, aside from the fact that he was quite possibly the classiest and most intelligent person she'd ever met at Swim Week. He was a gentleman and had very good manners (later on she would see the superficial resemblance to Darcy here), pleasant enough company, but she didn't... really know. "I did. I do."

She took a deep, calming breath before rolling her eyes. "But I'm not going to sneak out of the house to, what, meet up with him?" Lizzie continued, making a face as if the mere thought were childish. She took on a tone of mock-affront, adding, "I'm a bit insulted you think I'm that kind of girl, Jane." As soon as she said it, Lizzie froze, realizing the bitter, unintentional irony of her words. Apparently she _had_ become that kind of girl. Really, if she thought about it, she didn't know Darcy much better or much longer than she'd known George. She certainly didn't have many, if any, real conversations with the man she was sleeping with, and pretty much all of their text conversations were booty-calls. And she was pretty sure that any respect either of them had for each other was minimal at best.

The only real thing the one had on the other that maybe meant something was that she didn't meet Darcy at a bar during Swim Week. Well, that and the fact that she didn't expect anything from Darcy except ridiculously great sex, so she wasn't going to get invested in him or disappointed or anything. Maybe a bit annoyed if she didn't get off, she supposed.

But, then again, George's presence did not inspire violence or out-of-control behavior or self-loathing in her, so that was something.

Jane's eyes widened and she started to turn apologetic. Jane was the sort who apologized all the time for things that weren't even her fault, at least, until you knew her better. She was always so afraid of causing offense and so concerned with other's feelings. Lizzie waved it off, trying not to dwell on her own thoughts. "No, Jane, I promise I'm _just_ going to the library. I should be back after an hour at the most, depending on if I'm hungry enough for IHOP... You don't have to wait up." She tried to make herself feel better by pointing out that hey, at least she didn't lie. She really _was_ going to the library, after all, and she was going to drop off the books, and she might even go to IHOP afterwards because she was hungry and couldn't really sleep. But, of course, that wasn't _all_ she would be doing.

"And you're sure you're okay?" Jane asked uncertainly, her expression still faintly skeptical. She was twisting the hem of her nightgown in her fingers around and around, biting her lip a little. Lizzie felt bad that Jane worried so much. Sometimes she wished Jane cared less, that she would just worry about and focus on her own life the way she deserved. Because, out of all of them, she was the most deserving of anything life could give her, and it bothered Lizzie to see her sister, well... stuck in a rut. And Jane was. She acted happy with it, and maybe she even was, but the facts remained that her older sister was stuck at her parent's house, overworked and underpaid, defaulting on her debts, and not going anywhere.

Lizzie tried her best to look after herself and Lydia and Jane too, but Jane shouldn't have to still be here, living at home and running after her sisters trying to make sure they took care of themselves. She knew family was more important to Jane, as she supposed it should be. It was more important to her too, but... she knew Jane stayed because of her and Lydia, and that just... it wasn't fair to Jane, who should be out in the world making everyone else's lives beautiful too. Lizzie felt a bit selfish not just that Jane was here, but that she and Lydia got to keep Jane all to themselves, and there was this whole big world out there that Jane wasn't seeing.

But, see, as much as Lizzie wanted to tell Jane that it was okay to move on, well... she didn't want to lose Jane, and she didn't know how to say it right, that it was okay for Jane to pursue her dreams too.

"Yes, Jane, for the last time, I'm _fine! _Really," she said a bit sharply, hoping she was convincing. She wanted nothing more than to end this farcical conversation before she did something really stupid like crack under the pressure and scream out that she was sleeping with Darcy. Jane's face fell. Lizzie hung her head, feeling awful again, and immediately started to apologize. She held her hands out in a conciliatory gesture. "I'm just a bit on edge, but really, I'm good," Lizzie insisted, her smile just a bit too tight. "You go to sleep, have sweet dreams, and I'll be back before you know it. I promise." Lizzie held up her fingers like a scout—boy or girl, she didn't really know—and then smiled. Jane was, of course, still eying her warily, but she attempted a smile for Lizzie's sake.

Her younger sister acting strange as of late was, after all, hardly unusual. And sometimes she just had to let Lizzie be Lizzie and work things out on her own. If Lizzie was having an issue, Jane was sure she'd talk to her about it. She wished her sister a goodnight and then turned to leave, but she stopped midway to the stairs and turned around to see Jane still staring after her with that look on her face. "Seriously, Janie, you don't have to follow me or anything," she said, partly in jest.

Jane laughed. "Okay." She let out another large yawn, blinking sleepily. It was clearly time for her to go to bed, and they both knew it. "Goodnight, Lizzie. I'll see you in the morning," Jane said, waving goodnight to her sister before padding back down the hall to her bedroom. When the door closed behind Jane, Lizzie sighed. It came out in a giant whoosh, and she was kind of incredulous that she'd managed to pull off lying to her older sister. Then Lizzie headed down the stairs, locking the door behind her, and driving to the library trying very hard not to think about what she was going there to do.

When she arrived at the library, Darcy's rental was already there in the parking lot. He'd put the top up, which was considerate, she supposed. As she stepped out of her car, backpack in hand, she wondered if Darcy had been there long. She headed first to the book drop-off, taking the books out of her backpack one at a time and putting them through the slot methodically. She didn't want _everything_ she told Jane to be a lie, after all. Then she turned around and walked to Darcy's car and tried to convince herself that she wasn't shame-walking there. He stretched across to open the passenger seat door for her, and she stepped in with a final, ridiculous glance around the parking lot. As if anyone but her and Darcy came to the library in the middle of the night.

She could feel Darcy's eyes on her already as she dropped her backpack to his floor. He rubbed his hands on his thighs and then reached out to start the ignition, but Lizzie's hand shot out to still his hand. "I, um..." She took a deep breath, smoothing her skirt. "I don't want to go to Netherfield tonight," she blurted, biting the corner of her lip. Darcy stared at her blankly, uncomprehending, before nodding and taking his fingers away from the ignition. She look her hand off of his, and then they fell into the predictable awkward silence. It went on for about a minute or so before Lizzie decided she couldn't take it anymore.

"So, you uh... left Carter's kind of in a hurry," Lizzie said, drumming her fingers on her thighs. She had to make a conscious effort to make it seem casual and unaffected when she was really dying of curiosity. Every nerve and urge in her body was screaming out for the answer. Wanting to know the truth about him and George was half of the reason why she'd snuck out and came here to see him. Maybe he would be more likely to tell her when they were alone. "Any _particular_ reason?" she asked, peering over at him cautiously.

Darcy stiffened, his jaw tightening. The same thing had happened when he laid eyes on George and saw him bringing her and her sister beers. He knew what she was getting at, of course, but he didn't want to explain—even if he knew how to put everything that man had put him and his sister through—and he didn't. "I didn't care too much for some of the company," he managed tersely. It feels like a rebuke. Like he was insulting her too, but obviously he wouldn't be here if he didn't like her company in some way, so she knew he wasn't talking about her. Just her sisters and their supposedly mutual friend Caroline, apparently.

Wickham was the _last _thing he wanted to be talking about, not now when he was here with her and had far better things to be doing. He needed this, needed her. And more than that, he needed to get George effing Wickham out of his head. That, though, was easier said than done, as Darcy knew all too well. Lizzie's eyebrows shot up. He sighed a moment later, his tone turning a bit more conciliatory, almost like he'd realized he was being rude. Lizzie privately thought that would be a first. "I had things to do," he replied vaguely, making an equally nondescript gesture.

Lizzie gave him a skeptical look, not buying that for a second. Who had things to do besides sleep at that hour? Even though Darcy was a super-busy CEO or whatever, even _he_ wasn't going to work on a Sunday night, was he?! Darcy did not elaborate much. He was pretty clearly frustrated, judging from the way his hands were clenched around the steering wheel, his knuckles white. "My-" He had to force the word out. "-sister-" He paused a moment, proud of himself for saying it. He'd never really spoken to Lizzie about Gigi before, but of course tonight would be the night to mention her. "Was expecting a call from me," he said finally.

Lizzie nodded hesitantly, not sure whether to believe him. He wasn't the type to lie, certainly, but Darcy wasn't the type to volunteer much in the way of information, even to someone he was sleeping with. Her brow furrowed faintly as she wondered why he needed to leave the bar entirely to talk to his sister and at such a late hour. It had certainly been loud at Carter's, but he hadn't left because of a phone call with his sister, of that she was more or less certain.

Darcy hadn't spoken to his sister much over the course of the summer for the obvious reason. That reason being the man Lizzie had just asked him about. He knew he deserved every awful thing his baby sister had to say to him, and noise was certainly better than silence, better than her retreating into herself and walling him out. She wasn't like him in that way. He was the one who'd failed to protect her, who'd failed to warn her, who'd failed to see. He'd wanted to call Gigi right after he left, to make sure she was all right, but what would he say? That he'd seen her ex in a bar hitting on the girl _he_ was sleeping with? He was still too raw, too painful to mention. George was a welt, vicious and stinging, on their relationship, and Darcy wasn't ever really sure that wound would heal, that it wouldn't leave a scar forever preventing him and his sister from being close.

Darcy wanted to tell her, wanted to prove that he was right. She had the right to know, after all, but he knew what Gigi would say. That he was being cruel and rubbing it in, and she was probably more than a little right about that. Ultimately, though, he was worried about what telling her that her ex had moved on so quickly would do to her. He'd gone out to his car and stared at his phone for ten minutes, deciding what to do before he drove to Netherfield in a daze. He'd stared at the wall for a few hours, tried to sleep and distract himself with work until he could take it no longer and texted Lizzie. He was in need of a distraction more than ever tonight.

She rubbed her fingers across her chin, tilting her head to regard him curiously. It took a moment for her to steel her nerves—not that she was _afraid_ of Darcy, but she wasn't sure how he'd react. After all, the man had a temper, and he found her barely tolerable already, plus they hadn't even done anything sexual yet so she hadn't even been able to butter him up. Lizzie didn't want to ruin that, what little good she got out of this, by pushing a button he clearly didn't want pressed. "See, that's funny..." Lizzie began, watching him carefully, "I thought you left because George showed up." A muscle in Darcy's jaw jumped, but he remained in stony silence. "You two know each other, right?" Lizzie asked, leaning towards him unconsciously.

A shadow seemed to pass over Darcy's face, making him look almost menacing. His face was contorting, all right, but into a grimace. Did he _know _George Wickham? Did he? The question had haunted him for years, and sometimes a faint, uncertain voice whispered in his ear that he might've been wrong. And he knows it's from that part of him that he thought died with their friendship, the part that truly does wish that he was wrong about George, the same part that wants to go back to what he never really had. As he thought, his brow furrowed, making him look even more like some kind of romantic, brooding figure.

Lizzie blinked, thinking it just a trick of the streetlights in the distance. He turned away from her to stare out the window. He did that a lot and much more in her presence than otherwise. Lizzie rolled her eyes and wondered, as she often did, whether the man was perpetually in a bad mood or if everything on earth, including the air, had done something to personally offend him. After a moment that seemed to stretch on for an awkward eternity, he spoke. He felt like he had to say something. "I thought I did," Darcy muttered darkly. He would never make that mistake again.

She gave him an expectant look, but he said nothing. She sighed impatiently, smoothing her fingers over the skirt of her dress. "What's that about?" she asked bluntly, a bit fed up with his uncooperativeness. It bothered her, not getting down to the bottom of a mystery. Darcy turned and gave her a cautious look, as if weighing his options, calculating. His expression was impenetrable. For a moment, though, he considered it, really considered telling her. Perhaps if she'd looked at him differently or seemed more than curious, than casually curious, he'd have spilled the whole sordid story. But maybe he wouldn't have because he was still in denial that he owed an explanation to her, that he even cared that much. He would regret it later, but then he didn't see why it would be relevant.

He hated talking about George, _hated_ thinking about him, and it was easiest to just... forget about him when he could. Not that he often could, which was exactly what George wanted, what he got off on. Darcy certainly didn't want Lizzie to fall prey to his dubious charms, but, then, she was too sensible for that. He closed off even further, sulking and staring straight ahead at the dark building. Lizzie scoffed, pushing at his shoulder, "Come on, Darcy... you don't glare at _everyone _like that. There's a story there."

Strangely, she avoided saying the word hate or being quite so free with her words. She didn't think Darcy would answer her, but she hoped he'd surprise her. After all, Darcy was never shy in articulating his opinion, so why would he shy away from a subject he could potentially be the authority on? He clearly knew George better than she did.

Darcy didn't budge, though. Stiffly, his jaw still tight enough to crack walnuts, he glanced over at her, eyes narrowed in suppressed anger. "It's personal, and I don't want to talk about it," Darcy all but snapped. I'd prefer to just put that infernal man behind me once and for all, he thought bitterly. To just move on. As if it were really that easy, as if George wasn't tangled up in all of his childhood memories that really meant anything. The happy ones, too... for a time they'd been, well, closer than any of the friends he had now, that was for sure. He'd _trusted_ him, after all, and he would never trust anyone like that again, would never share those things with another friend—probably not even another person.

If he was honest, George had given him more than his share of advice and helped shape the man he was now, as much as William tried to deny it or minimize it. He was stuck playing George's foil, defining himself by being everything the other man was not, and he'd defined himself by that for so long now he didn't know another way. It wasn't a game he wanted to play anymore; he didn't have a father to impress now, after all. Just a memory and impossibly high standards to live up to, and this commitment to live _right_. Darcy shut his eyes hard, hanging his head a little, trying to put these tangled thoughts out of his mind.

Either way, he was pretty sure that living the right, the _correct_ and proper sort of life was not having casual sex in a rental car like a high-schooler.

He opened his eyes after a moment. Lizzie put her hands up, surrendering, and took the hint. Guess having sex with him didn't really make it any of her business at all. She could kind of understand that, but it still bothered her. Not knowing things really got to her. He probably wouldn't have told her anyway, no matter how nicely she asked, so she might as well just let it go. Besides, Darcy wasn't the only one she could ask. Darcy exhaled deeply through his nose, and then he abruptly turned to her, leaning across the seat to draw her into a kiss that brought both a blissful absence of thought. He absorbed the sensation, poured all of himself into it, and he pulled her closer, his hand tangling in her hair. The tension in his muscles gradually faded away, becoming something else entirely.

Then Lizzie surprised him by climbing over the seats, clambering into his lap and on top of him. She'd come into his car for this express purpose, because there was more room. His lap full of Lizzie, Darcy found himself groping for the button to recline and push back the seat. Lizzie wrapped her arms around his neck, edging forward onto her knees as she kissed him intensely. The seat fell back somewhat unexpectedly, and Lizzie fell against him. They bumped noses uncomfortably. If he was another man, perhaps, or either of them were younger, she might've broken out into laughter.

Her long hair fell into both of their faces, and Darcy pushed it back like a curtain, looking at her for a long moment before putting his hand on her cheek and capturing her lips. His other hand found her back, stroking up and down. Lizzie hinged forward, one hand on his neck, the other coming down between them to find his belt and undo it by memory. Strangely, he liked the hand on his neck more. He'd unbuttoned his collar and taken off the bowtie long ago, and the feeling of her hand low on his neck, her fingers trailing over his collarbone felt strangely intimate and soothing. Her touch cooled down burning skin.

Darcy grunted against her mouth, resting one hand just above the curve of her ass. The other made its way to the back of her knee, sliding up the back of her thigh as he started pulling her dress up. Then Lizzie was unzipping his pants and pushing them and his underwear down just enough, her hand closing around him with a suddenness that made him start. She could've done this without kissing him, but that would've been more awkward, facing this with eyes wide open.

Much less having to look right at him, to realize what she was doing. To watch his every expression, to have to share in it. It would've just been... too much for her now.

Kissing him made every thought go pleasantly hazy, and it made her feel a little less cheap. Lizzie tore herself away from him briefly to get and open the condom before she reached down between them to slide it on. Darcy went very still, holding himself firmly in place even though his hands were hitching to drag her down onto him. She ended up kissing his cheek instead of his lips, and he moved his hand around to the front of her thighs, absently snapping the elastic of her underwear against her skin.

Lizzie let out a little shuddering sigh then that made Darcy hook his fingers in the waistband of her panties and just about tear them off of her. She raised her hips and shifted to help him out, separating from him just long enough to kick her underwear off before coming back down onto his lap. His hand massaged the small of her back underneath her dress, fingers memorizing the feel of her skin, the warmth, and the solidity of her bones underneath. Then both of his hands were curving over her hipbones, pulling her down, down, down. It was as if all of Lizzie's body felt compelled to sink, like she no longer wanted to support her own weight on her weak knees. He positioned her over him carefully, holding her there for a moment, waiting just long enough for her nails to dig into his skin, at the base of his neck and at his own hip, before guiding himself into her.

Being a part of her, even for so brief a period, is the best part.

It isn't quite what either of them intended, not quite so fast and furious as all that, but close enough. They're both frustrated, and the mechanics of doing it in the car make it take a bit longer because it's not exactly ideal for this sort of thing, but they managed about twelve minutes. They spent the next few minutes just resting against each other, waiting for their breathing to slow. Lizzie's face was wedged up between Darcy's jaw and neck not wholly comfortably, but she was still too tired to move. His arm was draped low around her waist, his wrist resting on the curve of her hip.

It was an unusually balmy night, humid too, so they both felt sticky, their skin clammy and sweatier than it would've been otherwise. After a while, Lizzie exhaled deeply and pried herself away from his neck, pushing against his shoulders so she could sit up properly. She grunted at the way her shift made him move inside her and sluggishly pulled herself off of him, pressing down on his shoulders for leverage and subsequently climbing over the console and the clutch to flop indelicately into the passenger seat where she'd started this journey. Darcy snorted at the sight, starting to sit back up.

Lizzie didn't look at him. She pulled down the mirror, straightening her dress, primly pulling it back down over her thighs. Darcy bent down, pulling his pants up and groping around for her panties, which were somewhere by the brake. Once he reached them, he tossed them in Lizzie's direction. He was too busy adjusting his seat and other things to notice the way her cheeks pinked when they landed in her lap. She briefly glanced over at him, relieved to find that he wasn't staring for once, and quietly slipped them back on. She then frowned at her reflection, running her fingers through her hair.

Darcy reached over to the dashboard, opening the compartment and pulling out the pack of tissues. He handed one to Lizzie, presumably to clean herself up some, and then used the one he'd taken to dispose of the condom. She dabbed away the sweat, going through a few tissues more as Darcy got out of the car and went to find a trashcan. It occurred to her as she was tracking his form in the darkness, waiting to throw away the tissues, that she'd never had sex in public before tonight. Even if it was in an empty library parking lot and probably didn't count, someone could've seen them, she supposed. The recklessness of what she'd just done hit her then, hard, like a slap in the face.

Then Darcy returned to the car, and she smiled weakly and got up to go throw the tissues away. Half of her sort of hoped Darcy would just leave so she wouldn't have to have the awkward post-coital conversation, but she knew he wasn't, unfortunately, just going to drive off. Then again, she kind of didn't exactly want to be alone either. She was a bit less wired, but she'd worked up an appetite too. She made her way back to the car and sat down, bending down to collect the backpack she'd discarded at her feet. For a moment, she and Darcy sat there in silence so absolute the only sounds she heard were those of cicadas and crickets. It was reminiscent of their many other awkward silences: after sex, after insults, when they danced together, when she'd arrived here. Sometimes she felt like they really had nothing to say to each other.

She was just about to open up her door and head out when her stomach growled loudly. Darcy suppressed a small grin, and Lizzie laughed uncomfortably. She wasn't exactly embarrassed, more a bit sheepish. "Well, that's my cue to go to IHOP," she exclaimed, gesturing towards the door. "I'll, uh..." She paused, looking to the side and trying to think of a a way to put it. "I'll see you around, I guess," she murmured, one hand on the door, the other raised in an awkward raised waving gesture. Then Lizzie pushed open the door, still wearing that slightly pained smile.

Quite similarly, Darcy's voice stopped her and made her turn around. He wanted to prolong the moment somehow, to not have to go back to Netherfield to be alone with his own dark thoughts. He didn't want her to go quite so soon or for it to end just as awkward as it had begun. "Lizzie, I..." He paused, brow furrowing, as if he were about to say something, but he seemed to think the better of it and licked his lips instead. Darcy didn't entirely know what he was going to say, but it would've involved saying something more about his feelings than he ought to. "I'm famished. Would you mind terribly if I came with you?" he managed to say, hating that he felt as nervous as a schoolboy all of a sudden.

Lizzie stared at him as if he'd grown two heads before blinking, somewhat taken aback. Had he really just invited himself along... to IHOP? Sure, they'd eaten together before, but never by themselves in public (so much as the nearest IHOP in the middle of the night was a public place where either of them were likely to encounter anyone they knew). But what on earth did that mean? "Um..." Lizzie had no idea what to say.

She was still processing it when she looked at Darcy for what felt like the first time all night. He looked the same, maybe a bit anxious, a little less put-together than usual, but she had the sudden thought that maybe Darcy didn't want to go back home either. He was either hungry enough to brave nonorganic food or, well, he wanted to spend time with someone who didn't expect anything of him. She thought back to the previous night; maybe he was lonely too. After a moment of contemplation, she smiled faintly. "Okay, I guess," she said quietly. "You can come too." She found herself weirdly relieved that she didn't have to be alone.

That, of course, didn't change the fact that it would probably be really awkward. Even if she was thinking some nicer things about Darcy, he was still infuriating about half the time, and it was probably only out of gratitude for last night. Or obligation, maybe.

Darcy's expression changed somehow. Maybe it twitched, maybe his eyes were brighter, but either way he looked a bit more energized. He felt lighter then, as if a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. In truth, he almost smiled; this was kind of a big step, that Lizzie was actually letting him come with her out in public. While Darcy was reflecting on his good fortune dazedly, Lizzie had left his car and was getting in hers. When Darcy noticed this, he pulled his keys out of the ignition, getting out of his car and locking it before making his way over to her car.

Her car was an older model Toyota, compact, blue, and a bit dusty on the outside, nothing fancy. He tapped on the window, and Lizzie glanced up from where she was fastening her seatbelt, pursing her lips in slight confusion. Had she forgotten something in his car, or did he want something else? She rolled down the window, and Darcy leaned down to talk to her, hoping his face wasn't reddening already. "It would probably be preferable if we went in the same car, don't you think?" He was almost sure she wouldn't ditch him on the road. Darcy cleared his throat and then went to the logical arguments, since this seemed to leave her unmoved.

"Aside from being environmentally-friendly and allowing us to take advantage of the carpool lane-" Lizzie raised her eyebrows. What was up with the carpool lane all of a sudden? They didn't really have those here... and had he just used Bing and Jane's reasoning to get a ride in her car... after she'd ridden him in his? The thought alone was enough to almost make her cringe. Darcy glanced down and cleared his throat again, growing increasingly flustered. Why was everything so difficult with her? Forcing words out of his mouth, let alone the right words, was nearly impossible in her presence. "It would just be more practical."

Then again, hadn't his father always told him that anything worth having in this world was difficult and required a lot of work? That it being hard-won increased its practical and sentimental value? Particularly women, his father had said, casting a rare fond glance at one of the few pictures of his mother that was still around the house. Beauty and value like that is rare, he'd said, and sometimes hard to appraise. He'd said so much more that Darcy could only wish he remembered.

He turned to look back at his own car, the flashy red convertible he'd rented in an attempt to be more fun. Bing had convinced him to get it so that he could "lighten up" and "just enjoy the summer for once." Darcy gestured to the car. "My rental is a bit more... distinctive, and neither of us wants to draw any undue attention to ourselves, after all..." he trailed off, hoping his words had the intended effect. That was, after all, the main reason he wanted to ride with Lizzie. Lizzie looked from him to the car before realizing that, unfortunately, Darcy actually had a great point. She suppressed a sigh and unlocked the door for him.

Darcy opened the door and slid into the car, carefully folding himself inside. He'd seen her car before, but this was the first time he'd ever actually been inside of it. The car smelled like her and summer. He frowned almost immediately; it was a bit cramped for his liking, and he sought to adjust the seat almost immediately. He was careful not to step on her backpack. However, he was so busy doing all of this that he didn't notice that Lizzie was staring at him as if she couldn't quite believe this was happening. Her and Darcy going to IHOP together was, quite possibly, even more surreal than the thought of sleeping with him.

As Darcy fastened his seatbelt, Lizzie turned on the car. "You... do know we're going to _IHOP_, right?" she asked, simply because she had to ask. Darcy looked at her blankly, pushing his seat back just a bit more. "The 24-hour chain restaurant." She emphasized "chain" just because she knew it was the sort of thing Darcy hated, but he showed a curious lack of distaste. "They don't have macrobiotic vegan pancakes. Or fancy foreign chefs," she continued a bit mockingly, pulling out of the parking lot. After a moment more, she mused, "I don't even think they have real maple syrup."

Darcy would not ordinarily eat at this sort of establishment, that much was true, but he was hardly as fastidious as everyone else thought he was. People seemed to have gotten the strange misconception that he ate particularly healthy; if he did, it was only because of the people in his employ rather than many conscious choices. "That is quite fortunate," Darcy said, glancing out at the scenery, "as I imagine that particular sort of pancakes would taste like sawdust." Lizzie turned and gaped at him; had he just made a joke (he had and was rather proud of himself)? "I'm in the mood for something heartier than haute cuisine anyway," he added, still staring out the window.

His impeccable French pronunciation naturally made Lizzie roll her eyes. Sometimes you wanted something heavy and greasy and solid rather than a light, practically nonexistent meal of unripe melon slices, bisque, and some sort of ridiculous experimental frothy thing. She generally always preferred the former to the latter, but Darcy volunteering to eat greasy, unrefined food was always a surprise. "I'm thinking bacon, eggs, and pancakes with some hashbrowns," he said, practically salivating at the thought. He hadn't eaten much because he'd known he would be seeing Lizzie later.

"Really clogging up your arteries today, aren't you?" she observed with a jesting smile. The comment was meant to put Darcy at ease, as a bit of a joke, but instead Darcy grew stiff and still. He was completely silent for a very long moment, peering into the darkness, lost in his thoughts. Or, more aptly, he was caught up in the sudden, painful pang of reminder in his chest, not wholly unlike the heart attack she'd just alluded to. It was like he was back in that hospital again, listening to the doctor go on. Or like he was back in his parents' old bedroom, cleaning out his father's medicine cabinet and the statins and aspirin and everything that had kept his father alive (but not long enough) were in his hands.

Of course, Lizzie couldn't know about his father's death because he'd never told her, never talked about it with anyone who wasn't there, but the unintentional reminder stung. Lizzie cleared her throat and said something Darcy didn't hear because all of her words were like water rushing through his ears. He did turn to face her dutifully, though, and gathered after a moment that she'd asked him if he was okay. He informed her rather curtly that he was fine and then lapsed back into silence.

"Hopefully not," he said distractedly. Then Lizzie's fingers brushed against the back of his hand, snapping him back into reality. "After all, Lizzie, as I believe your younger sister would put it," he began in a low, measured voice, licking his parched lips, "You only live once." He remembered the youngest one had shouted that at him on at least one occasion and at the world probably more than once. It wasn't advice he was prone to give, or advice he tended to take, for that matter, but it was particularly apt to this little affair and his burgeoning attempts to develop a healthy work-life balance and find his own happiness.

Lizzie had tensed at the mention of Lydia, knowing what he likely thought of her, but Darcy had surprised her. She just about stopped the car in the middle of the road out of sheer disbelief when she heard what he said. "Did you just YOLO me, Darcy?" She didn't know whether to be amused, confused, or mortified.

He drew his chin back to his neck, feeling a bit flushed, but he didn't answer the question. What was this YOLO of which she spoke? He felt somehow as if he'd said the wrong thing. He thought Lizzie would appreciate that particular life philosophy of living every day to its fullest. "I have been to IHOP before, you know. I've even been to Denny's," he said almost petulantly.

Lizzie made a face. "When have you ever been to IHOP?" Darcy turned his neck to look at her, all of his body rather stiff. Apparently she did really want to know. Darcy rubbed his hands down his slacks. Lizzie asking him personal questions was rather rare, though he wasn't averse to answering her when she did. He couldn't answer anything about George, but he could, however, answer this for her. He owed it to her, really, after all she told him about herself without his even asking.

He took a breath, looking rather stiff, and began, "In college, my brothers and I used to-"

Lizzie's eyes widened. Apparently Darcy was just full of surprises tonight. "-Wait, _brothers_?! Were you in a fraternity? Or are you just speaking figuratively?" she asked. Maybe he called his close friends brothers? Or, perhaps, she supposed, Darcy had more family than just his little sister? It was very difficult for her to picture William Darcy in a fraternity, drinking beer out of red solo cups with the plebes... with guys who wore visors and backwards baseball caps and tacky polo shirts with shorts. Everything about it: the ceaseless drinking, the hazing, the shameless chasing and objectifying of young women, the filthiness, the fondness for Top 40 radio and bad rap... none of it seemed like anything he would be interested in. Let alone the social aspect of being in a group that lived to socialize.

Darcy's nostrils flared. A fraternity, as if he would deign to join one of those establishments? Lizzie correctly read the flicker of annoyance (and elitism) on his face and turned off towards the IHOP. "Not a fraternity. I was in a final club," he corrected primly, smoothing his shirt. Lizzie blinked, opening her mouth to inquire what the hell he was talking about, but Darcy started speaking again before she could. "I suppose I may be speaking figuratively, but it is much easier to call them brothers than fellow members," he said with a small shrug. Lizzie realized suddenly that he was talking about a very different sort of society, the selective kind that restricted membership to rich elitist blue-blooded bastards. Darcy was oblivious to the way her expression darkened. "Anyway, my brothers and I used to go during finals or after going out when we were hungry and not in the mood for the Kong."

They arrived at IHOP before she could question him further. Darcy and drunk food? What next, Darcy ordering pizza voluntarily and _not_ eating it with a fork? She shook her head getting out of the car, taking her purse numbly when Darcy handed it to her. She locked the car and walked up to the restaurant. Darcy opened the door for her and slipped in after her, but Lizzie was still trying to absorb how ridiculously surreal this all was. She and Darcy were actually doing this, apparently. Lizzie glanced around the restaurant reflexively; fortunately, the restaurant was mostly deserted. At the very least, she didn't see anyone she knew.

After a minute or two of awkward silence and perusing the menu, the waitress came over and asked them for their orders. She brought them their drinks (ice water and milk) a moment later. While they waited for their food, Darcy brought up the subject he'd tried to broach earlier that evening: Tolstoy. Lizzie quickly skipped from that to Shakespeare and from that they started talking about any topic that came to mind. Sometimes Lizzie forgot Darcy was a decent conversationalist when he wanted to be. Their pleasant but occasionally heated conversation ceased when the waitress brought them their food. Lizzie started in on her pancakes, and Darcy sighed quietly, resigned, and started digging in with similar gusto. They ate in a silence that was neither companionable nor awkward.

"Lizzie Bennet, is that you?" a sweet voice called out. Lizzie's head shot up almost guiltily, her fork clattering against her plate. Darcy quirked a brow, giving her a questioning look that Lizzie paid no attention to. If she had, she would've been both surprised and alarmed at how utterly unperturbed he was. He had less to lose than she, of course, and it was extremely unlikely that he would run into anyone he knew or cared about. Lizzie swallowed hard; the pancakes and syrup felt like glue in her throat.

She smiled grimly and glanced around to see who had called her name. Due in part to her videos, Lizzie lived in fear (and anticipation) of being recognized from her vlog. Never knowing who was watching and having little control over it (as, indeed, finding out Caroline watched) unsettled her. She was glad that Darcy didn't know, that her viewers didn't know what he looked like (and never would, if she had anything to say about it). Aside from a loud, giggly group of teens or preteens in the corner, a few insomniac students, the tired waitstaff, and some lonely-looking stragglers nursing coffee, the IHOP was more or less deserted. Finally, her eyes landed on a familiar face.

Her shoulders relaxed a little as she met the gaze of one Mrs. Amelia Hill. Mrs. Hill had dark gray hair, brown eyes, and the kind of friendly, warm face which made everyone who met her want to smile. Lizzie straightened reflexively and waved at the older woman, who immediately came over. Darcy followed the direction of her stare and threw a glance over his shoulder before looking away, disinterested. "Mrs. Hill!" Lizzie cried, pushing her plate away and moving into her former babysitter's outstretched arms for a hug. "It's so good to see you!"

While the circumstances were hardly ideal, Lizzie was actually happy to see her. Mrs. Hill had (and still did) live down the street from Lizzie, and she had watched the Bennet sisters for years after school or when their mother or other family members were busy. She had welcomed Mrs. Bennet to the neighborhood when she'd moved in here, otherwise friendless and somewhat ostracized by local society because of her accent, "country" manners, and unparalleled beauty. As Frances Bennet's own mother had died shortly before her marriage, it was easy for her to get attached to the older woman who reminded her so much of her own dear mother, and Amelia Hill became a sort of second mother to her.

Lizzie and her sisters had many fond memories of Mrs. Hill making them smoothies after school, giving them manicures, and teaching them how to quilt. She had stitched costumes for Lizzie's plays, made them candy, taught Jane how to embroider by hand, and played dolls with Lydia whenever she'd asked. Her warm, flour-scented embrace had soothed many aches and pains.

Mrs. Hill laughed merrily at the familiar phrase. "It does feel like it's been an age, hasn't it, Lizzie?" she remarked, pulling away from Lizzie to look at her. Lizzie looked down a little, feeling a bit guilty. She'd been so busy that she hadn't seen Mrs. Hill in a few months. Hands still on Lizzie's shoulders, Amelia surveyed her from head to toe and smiled proudly. "Look at you. So grown up! Why, I swear you get prettier every time I see you!" she exclaimed brightly. Her eyes even crinkled at the corners. Lizzie flushed at the compliment and did not at all look at Darcy, who was probably snarkily discounting Mrs. Hill's words already, if he'd even heard them.

Lizzie also sensed, of course, that she was about to add something (slightly ridiculous and possibly untrue) about Mrs. Bennet being proud of her, and she cut her off. "How are you? What are you doing here so late?" Lizzie asked, wondering if she wasn't being a bit too obvious, a bit too rushed in her attempt to draw attention away from the fact that she wasn't here alone. It was, however, pretty strange to see sweet old Mrs. Hill in IHOP, much less at this hour. Lizzie knew for a fact that the older woman made much better pancakes than the ones they served here.

Darcy glanced over at them furtively every moment or so, wondering how they knew each other. The woman didn't look familiar, not like anyone he'd  
heard of or seen Lizzie associating with (not that he knew her very well). He watched jealously, wondering if he would be granted an introduction or if Lizzie would just continue acting as if he weren't here.

Mrs. Hill smiled. "Oh, I'm just fine, Lizzie," she said, patting Lizzie on the shoulder. Unlike most others, when Amelia Hill said she was fine, it did not carry a negative connotation. She just meant it. "My granddaughters are having a sleepover," she explained, motioning over to the noisy pack of girls taking up a massive table in the corner. Sure enough, if she looked hard enough, Lizzie discerned the twins, who were, she thought, a few years younger than Lydia and similarly boisterous. Mrs. Hill had children and grandchildren, but up until middle school, they hadn't lived nearby. Lizzie's entire family shared the opinion that Hill's own family did not adequately value or appreciate her.

Lizzie's brows shot up in amusement and pity, but the other woman merely smiled and let out a long-suffering sigh. Mrs. Hill had the patience of a saint, truly. "And you're chaperoning." Lizzie's gaze drifted back over to the messy tables, though she had the presence of mind not to cringe when one of the girls screeched. When she met Mrs. Hill's eyes once more, she didn't need to say "good luck" or "you have my sympathy;" both were there in her gaze.

The older woman motioned for Lizzie to sit back down, as if she were sorry for disturbing her. She opened her mouth to say something else, but at that very moment, Amelia turned and saw Darcy sitting there, calmly eating his eggs. Darcy looked up at her, meeting her inquiring stare with before his (slightly wider) eyes flicked over to Lizzie's almost imploringly. "Oh, Lizzie, I'm so sorry! I never meant to interrupt-" Lizzie sank heavily into her seat, well and fully mortified, already waving Mrs. Hill off and shaking her head. The last thing she wanted was something like this getting back to her mother, who was far too discerning to believe whatever she was going to tell sweet Mrs. Hill.

Before Lizzie could protest that she wasn't interrupting anything, Mrs. Hill fixed her eyes back on Darcy. Her curiosity went unspoken, but Lizzie felt it all the same. Amelia opened her mouth to ask Lizzie who the man was, but she stopped short of saying the words. Frannie hadn't said that Lizzie was seeing anyone; indeed, she often lamented whether or not her most stubborn daughter would _ever _find a suitable man to date, let alone marry. Seeing the way the young man was looking at Lizzie, and the way Lizzie was very determinedly not looking at him, Mrs. Hill smiled and chose a more provocative question. "So, dear, how long have you two been together?" she asked serenely, her eyes sparkling with a mischief Lizzie should've have expected.

Lizzie had started shoveling food into her mouth to avoid talking. Darcy had started drinking his milk. Predictably, the unexpected query led Lizzie to choke on her food. Darcy very nearly did a spit-take, but his self-control was a bit better than Lizzie's, and he swallowed carefully. At the sound of his... whatever she was... choking, Darcy reached across the table hesitantly, looking worried. Mrs. Hill watched approvingly, even as Lizzie patted her back and chest, coughing violently.

When Lizzie had stopped choking, she and Darcy sought to explain themselves, unintentionally speaking in unison. They very pointedly did not look at each other.

"We're..." Darcy paused, trying to think of a delicate way to put it. It suddenly occurred to him that he didn't at all know what he wanted to say. This was rather unprecedented (and unpleasant).

"We're _not_-"

Realizing they were speaking in chorus, they both stopped and stared at each other for a painfully long, awkward moment. Lizzie looked utterly horrified, embarrassed, even, at the assumption. Her eyes were wide and wild and just the littlest bit guilty. She was tired and on edge from lying to people all the time or being interrupted by her sisters or her father or their friends and now even her childhood babysitter! Darcy was better at remaining impassive, but inwardly he was every bit as horrified as Lizzie, albeit for different reasons. He didn't know what he wanted to say, what he wanted to claim about his relationship with Lizzie... which was an unexpectedly unsettling realization.

He managed somehow to make a vague gesture with his hands, which Lizzie took as a sign to go on. She cleared her throat uncomfortably. "We're actually... not... together," Lizzie said awkwardly, trying not to frown at the mere thought. Darcy's face fell a little, though it went unnoticed by anyone but Mrs. Hill. He did, however, notice that he was somehow disappointed by her saying it, by disclaiming anything having to do with him. He shouldn't have been; he knew that, same as he knew what this was, and yet... Amelia arched a brow, and Lizzie licked her lips, avoiding looking at Darcy. "Mrs. Hill, this is my _friend_..." She suddenly directed the full force of her stare at Darcy himself, floundering for a name. It was all he could do to stare back helplessly, feeling like he was even more at her mercy.

She took it, of course, for more of a blank, unhelpful stare. Lizzie allowed herself a moment to consider her options. His last name was out for the obvious reasons. She supposed she could introduce him as William or some variation hence (it was a common name, after all)... Will, Bill, Liam, Willy, Billy, and so on, but they all sounded wrong and... intimate. Besides, he was the only William she had been even sort of associating with as of late, and when his description got out, there would be absolutely no mistaking who she was talking about. Things had a way of getting out in small towns, just when you least expected it.

Besides, she hadn't used his first name at any point in their little affair (because of her intense paranoia that anyone find out), much less when covering it up, so why start now?

"Eh-L..." Lizzie tested the letter, repeating it, "Li..." She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. It looked worse the longer she did it and drew it out, and it became less and less believable. And if anyone could catch her in a lie, it was Mrs. Hill. "-Elliot," Lizzie managed finally, tearing her gaze away from Darcy's. She straightened a little, inordinately proud of herself for coming up with something. Darcy's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't contradict her. She turned to Mrs. Hill again, affecting an easy smile, and continued, "He's one of my TAs. Er, he _was_. He's going for his PhD."

Darcy nodded and adopted that particular expression of his that passed for a polite, disinterested smile minus the actual contortion of muscles. Occasionally Lizzie wondered if that lack of expression was a result of Botox or years of Zen-like training to never show emotion. Feeling the pressure of making the introduction weighing rather heavily on her shoulders, Lizzie gestured between the two with her hands and fork. "Elliot," she began, heavy on the name. It was probably the closest he was ever going to get to hearing her say his first name, so he tried to dwell on the first syllable. "This is Mrs. Amelia Hill, my neighbor and the best babysitter I have ever had." She smiled to punctuate it, but it didn't quite meet her eyes.

Mrs. Hill grinned widely (and welcomingly) at Darcy. In that moment, she resembled Anne Reynolds more than anything, and Darcy's entire face softened. She was, however, too dissimilar for him to smile shyly but naturally, as he did in Reynolds' presence. "Nice to meet you, Elliot," she said, acknowledging him with a nod. "What brings you two here?" she asked slyly a moment later. The "so late" was left unspoken, but both Lizzie and Darcy heard it as clear as if she'd actually said it. Lizzie flushed a little, hoping she wasn't so lobster red that Mrs. Hill could see. She hoped equally as fervently that her appearance didn't give anyone but Darcy any reason to suspect she'd had sex with him in his car earlier.

Lizzie motioned distractedly to the food. Darcy surprised her by chiming in, "Lizzie wanted to talk to me about her thesis. She wanted some input on a few things, and I have a lot of experience in media studies." It was the natural thing to say, but it was strange of him to mention it since he and Lizzie had never once talked about anything media-related that he could remember. Later on, he would wonder why he didn't engage her on a topic which they could both speak of knowledgeably, her experience theoretical and his practical. It's but one of many ways in which his attempts to woo went astray (but, then, he wasn't trying to woo her then, not really).

She blinked at him, utterly astounded. She wasn't quite certain she'd ever heard Darcy utter that many words to anyone other than herself, much less ones that were so patently un-insulting. He was even almost smiling. Reading her expression as awe or proof that he had impressed her, Darcy continued, "We went for coffee first, but they had to close up, so we came here and got something to eat." Lizzie threw Darcy a warning look. The more details, the harder they were to remember, and the more likely inconsistencies were (she knew that most basic rule about lying). Also, they had pretty much been sitting here in virtual silence since coming in.

Mrs. Hill nodded, watching the two with some amusement. There was obviously more between them than Lizzie was willing to divulge. She opened her mouth to ask a question, probably about Lizzie's thesis or her young man's experience, but her eldest granddaughter sidled up to her before she could say anything. Darcy barely took his eyes off Lizzie and could not have told anyone what the woman now standing next to Mrs. Hill even looked like if they'd asked, but he did notice the way that Lizzie's eyes widened and then narrowed further at the newcomer.

Lizzie set her fork down and stared at Amber Hill in disbelief. Amber was still the same bleach-blonde bitch she'd grown up with, still trying to saunter through the IHOP as if she owned the place, even though she was just pregnant enough for it to seem like she was putting on weight. As usual, Amber was showing too much, wearing clothes that didn't cover enough, almost as if she was proud of her trashiness, from the two-inch dirty-blonde roots at her scalp to her chipped acrylic nails. She was also still wearing enough make-up for one to mistake her for a streetwalker. Lizzie met her stare defiantly for a moment, readying herself for the inevitable insult.

Though Mrs. Hill had long wanted her granddaughter and Lizzie to be friends and, in her own way, imagined they _were_ friends, the opposite was true. Amber had hated Lizzie for absolutely no reason since she moved here, and she'd spent the better part of middle and high school making Lizzie's life as unpleasant as she possibly could. She played dirty, of course, but Lizzie had always been cleverer and better at getting the last word in, not to mention subtle. Lizzie was also pretty good at turning words meant to hurt into jokes she laughed along with... perhaps a little too good.

Amber did not disappoint. "Oh, hey, Beth," she said with affected casualness and disinterest. Lizzie's jaw tightened; she hated that name, and Amber well knew it. Mrs. Hill gave her granddaughter a relatively disapproving look, and Amber rolled her eyes, ignoring her. She gave Lizzie a rather dismissive onceover before making the stink face she was known for. Lizzie looked down at herself self-consciously and ran a hand through her hair. "Guess some things never change, do they? You're _finally_ talking to a man, for a change, and you're talking about **schoolwork**," Amber said with disdain, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

Lizzie did her best not to bristle. The words were a bit too similar to the sorts of things Lydia liked to say thoughtlessly, though at least Lydia cared about her welfare and wanted to help her. Amber's words did not come from a place of love or concern or decency. Lizzie had the perfect rejoinder ready ("You're right, Amber. In fact, I think you were also pregnant the last time I saw you." or "Well, Amber, we can't all skip straight to the "hi, you're going to be a daddy" talk, now can we?"), but she didn't get to make it. That was probably for the best, as Mrs. Hill would've given Lizzie a disappointed look.

Hearing this, Darcy frowned, feeling the need to defend Lizzie. If Lizzie hadn't been distracted, she probably would've been very amused to find that they were so wholly in agreement in regards to Amber. Later on that fact struck her and made her giggle. Darcy was eying her warily out of the corner of his eye as if she were a rabid dog or a billboard or lawn ornament that he found to be a particular eyesore. He cleared his throat, and all eyes turned to him.

"Actually, I think _Lizzie's_ thesis is quite... _stimulating_. It's some startlingly original and intelligent work. There's nothing more... attractive... than the benefits of post-secondary education," Darcy pronounced, lowering his voice an octave. He generally didn't compliment Lizzie because he felt uncomfortable doing it and rarely had the chance, but it was more satisfying than he knew. He didn't for a second take his eyes off of Lizzie's. Her lips turned up at the corners, and her eyes crinkled with suppressed mirth.

She almost blushed at the way he said it (and the subtle burn) and vowed to somehow reward him for it when they were alone. He obviously didn't really mean it, having no idea what her thesis really was, but it was strange to hear him compliment her. But in a kind of nice way, and not just because she was sure it was getting to Amber. Clearly this was the sleep deprivation and the urge to spite Amber talking. But gratitude to Darcy was mingled in there somewhere too, as much as she hated to admit it.

Amber, meanwhile, had gotten her first good look at the incredibly good-looking and tall man Lizzie was with, and her jaw went a little slack. She was speechless for a solid minute. If Lizzie hadn't been too busy staring at Darcy to notice, she might've smiled smugly. Amber continued to practically gape at Darcy. Lizzie Bennet, with a guy like that? Yeah, right. Everyone knew Lizzie Bennet couldn't get a man. It was like a law of the universe or something. So Amber puffed out her chest, flipping her hair and extending a hand. "Oh, hi," she purred in a sultry voice, moving in closer to Darcy, "I'm Amber Hill... what's your name, Handsome?"

Irritation showed plainly across Darcy's face, but he turned his head and looked up at the blonde disinterestedly. He might as well have stuck his nose up in the air and pronounced her "white trash" or something similar. "Elliot FitzWilliam." Then he turned away, ignoring her hand and pretending she wasn't there, and resumed staring at Lizzie. Her face was far more fresh and interesting. Lizzie, for her part, was attempting frantically to hold in the hysterical laughter threatening to burst out. She hadn't really noticed what Darcy had said, though if she had, it would've perhaps given her a moment of pause and made her forget her laughter entirely.

Amber's face fell, and she started, well, pouting. She wasn't what she used to be in high school, but she wasn't used to not being desired. Lizzie pressed her lips together tightly. However, Amber was nothing if not determined, and she was used to getting her way with men. Getting one over on Lizzie Bennet, of all people, would be equally worth it. It took some further examination, but Amber noted that Lizzie's companion was wearing brand-name clothing and a super expensive-looking watch, which meant he had money and was, accordingly, the Perfect Trifecta.

Sensing Amber's machinations, which were plainly written out on her face, Lizzie interrupted with a saccharine smile. "What have you been up to, Amber?" Lizzie asked unenthusiastically, giving her a look like she clearly knew what Amber was up to. Before Amber could answer, Lizzie gestured to her stomach, raising her brows in a faux-inviting expression. "You're, what... five months along?" Amber scowled at Lizzie.

"Three and a half," Amber answered with the barest civility. Lizzie tried not to smile; she'd known, of course, that she wasn't that far along. "I'm doing fine. Just... taking it easy." She smiled thinly. "_Working_ at the salon. I got a promotion," she continued proudly. Her eyes flashed; she no doubt remembered that Lizzie didn't have a job. Lizzie refrained from rolling her eyes. She wanted to say something like, "wow, I didn't know they gave the girls who swept up hair promotions!", but Mrs. Hill was still standing there with a strained expression on her face, and she respected her more than she hated Amber.

"That's great," Lizzie said in a voice that almost sounded sincere. But then she frowned, her brow wrinkling in something like concern, "But is that safe? All those fumes obviously aren't good for you, much less a baby!" Darcy was looking between them as if it were a tennis match, amused. Amber smoothed her hair, her eyes narrowing at the slight she perceived. Lizzie had always been wordy.

Amber laughed and gave Lizzie a pitying expression. "Like you know _anything_ about babies or how to have them, Beth," she said dismissively, though the implications were more sexual than that. Though Lizzie reminded herself of the fact that she had probably had better sex more recently than Amber, it was an old wound. Lizzie glared at Amber, biting down the urge to ask her if her poor mother was watching her other child, who was not yet six. Amber patted her stomach distractedly, with a look of self-satisfied maternal pride that made Lizzie almost sick to her stomach.

Mrs. Bennet liked to inform her daughters of their classmates' marriages and pregnancies, probably in the hopes that it would spur them onto making similarly potentially ill-advised relationship choices and big life decisions. Her little freak-outs and proclamations, however, usually had the exact opposite effect and only encouraged her daughters to keep doing what they were doing.

"At least I can get a man," Amber challenged, still holding her stomach. She said in in a voice so low that only Lizzie and Darcy could hear her. Darcy quirked a brow, and Lizzie looked at him pointedly, for Amber's benefit. The fact that she was with a man at IHOP at almost four o'clock in the morning was a pretty strong point in her favor. Darcy's fingers inched across the table towards hers. He'd noticed the way Lizzie's jaw had tightened just a little bit.

Lizzie didn't notice, of course. She faked a smile, her gaze dropping equally pointedly to Amber's stomach. "Yes, but whether or not you can get one to stick around is another matter, isn't it?" she countered, raising her brows in feigned innocence. Darcy gave Amber a cursory glance and found he could see why the men left. There wasn't much to hold their interest. Amber's expression darkened, and she gave Lizzie a particularly nasty look. Lizzie was preparing herself for the inevitable retort ("oh, you're one to talk, aren't you?", its impact somewhat lessened by the fact that Lizzie didn't have any fatherless children).

Instead, Amber smirked, placing her hand on the table and leaning in towards Darcy. She did this in such a way that, if he were to raise his head and look, he could've seen all the way down her shirt. Lizzie unfortunately could from her vantage point. Amber lowered her head a bit further to whisper in his ear, "Bet I can show you a better time than Lizzie-Never-Puts-Out over there." She gestured dismissively towards Lizzie, licking her lips and adopting a position she thought sexy. Amber had said it just loud enough for the other woman to hear, and she was rewarded with the sight of Lizzie clenching her jaw.

Darcy's reaction yielded much less reward. He blinked and jerked away from her, astounded at how bluntly he'd just been propositioned. As per usual when women threw themselves at him, it did nothing for him except to repulse him more than usual, like a verbal cold shower. Of course, usually the golddiggers who threw themselves at him were classier or better-educated, but he supposed some men went for women with other "charms." For a moment, he narrowed his eyes and stared disbelievingly at this woman who had puffed herself up so much that everything about her was ridiculous, from the cheetah-print tank to the neon skirt and ridiculous stripper heels. "I somehow doubt that," Darcy said dryly.

Lizzie stared at him, her eyes wide and surprised. The surprise confused him; why would she ever think he would accept an offer from someone like Amber, much less after he'd had sex with her? Lizzie wasn't really thinking Darcy would accept, but after all these years, it was still strange that a man would reject what Amber was all too willing to give up. The only guys who would turn her down in high school were the gay ones. Amber also gaped at Darcy, incredulous, but there was no mistaking the way he was looking at Lizzie. Lizzie who was probably too dumb to realize it. Being turned down for Lizzie Bennet, of all people, was beyond insulting.

Even stranger was the way Darcy's hand made its way across the table to hers. He intertwined their fingers without even a second thought, almost smiling at how nice it felt to hold her hand in public. In later reflection, the fact that this made him so pleased made him feel pathetic, but in that moment he merely enjoyed it, and he enjoyed surprising Lizzie. Mrs. Hill raised an eyebrow at this, but no one noticed. Darcy debated making a comment about how he liked having intelligent conversations, but he figured that would be mean with the girl's grandmother standing right there, and he didn't want to upset a pregnant woman. "I'm perfectly satisfied right where I am," Darcy said softly, squeezing Lizzie's hand.

Lizzie smiled almost against her will. She looked down before looking away from him; it was suddenly too much. Especially since she was alarmingly certain that he'd meant it. She chanced a glance up at Amber, though, purely by accident, and the look on her face, a mixture of outrage and incredulity, almost made Lizzie burst into loud Lydia-like cackles of hysterical laughter. Somehow, probably because Darcy was holding Lizzie's hand in public, she managed to hold it in, though the natural smile turned a bit smug.

Darcy, for his part still somewhat unable to believe Lizzie was actually holding hands with him in public, went back to his meal as if nothing had happened. Both Lizzie and Amber opened their mouths to fill the silence, probably with more thinly-veiled barbs or feigned politeness, but Mrs. Hill had the good sense and tact to interrupt. "We should probably leave them to their meal and work, Amber dear," she said, addressing her granddaughter and taking her arm. "You should get some rest," she said a bit reproachfully, eyes dropping to Amber's stomach. Amber frowned, looking a bit put-out and as if she were about to start arguing with her grandmother right there in the middle of the restaurant, but a look from Amelia silenced her.

Lizzie's breakfast companion was only paying cursory attention to this at best, but he felt a bit bad for all the things he'd thought about Lizzie's family and town. He was coming to realize bit by bit that Lizzie's family were actually some of the more classy, intelligent people in this little hamlet. Mrs. Hill smiled, clearing her throat, and reached out to set her hand on Lizzie's shoulder. "As always, Lizzie, it's been a pleasure," she said, "Tell your sisters hello for me." She paused, taking her hand off of Lizzie's bare shoulder. "You should come over soon so we can catch up."

Lizzie nodded dutifully, smiling back. She felt a bit guilty that she hadn't kept in touch with Mrs. Hill as well as she intended lately and vowed to remedy that. Although she wondered how she was going to explain this whole Elliot situation to her, since Hill forgot nothing, and Darcy would be gone in a month or two. And it would be like he was never there at all. Mrs. Hill's twinkling blue eyes landed on Lizzie's mysterious suitor, and she jerked her head towards him. "You should bring Elliot over for dinner or tea sometime when he's in town again," she said, smiling fondly at Darcy, who gave her his best version of an awkward pseudo-smile. Probably because he knew, as Lizzie did, that "Elliot" was extremely unlikely to ever come to Mrs. Hill's for tea and cookies.

Then Mrs. Hill and a sulky Amber headed back to their party, and Lizzie and Darcy turned back to their food. Lizzie pulled her hand out of Darcy's distractedly. She failed to see the way his face fell. Lizzie played with the food on her plate, moving it back and forth. She'd lost her appetite and just wanted to leave before she ran into someone else she knew. Darcy cleared his throat, glancing up at her almost shyly. "That girl... she was mean to you in high school?" he asked haltingly.

She froze, not expecting that question. Lizzie was rather surprised that Darcy had not already insisted on them leaving. She shrugged nonchalantly, a bit too casually, really. "She wasn't the nicest," Lizzie said shortly, well aware of how much of an understatement that was. "We... didn't really get along," she added a moment later, averting her gaze and making a face. That was one way of saying that they were essentially high school archenemies.

Darcy watched her still and saw through her. He'd never seen Lizzie quite so defensive."I gathered that," he said dryly before eating the last of his hashbrowns. He frowned slightly, and Lizzie backed into her seat, waiting to hear what he had to say. "Although I'm afraid I can't see why she thinks you have any trouble attracting people. You're far more..." he trailed off, unable to think of a suitable word to describe her... Full of life? Magnetic? Exciting? Vivacious? Intelligent? Alluring? Lizzie's shoulders deflated a little as she watched him stare in silence, though she supposed he at least hadn't insulted her. She waited an interminable minute and a half for him to finish the sentence.

When he didn't, she suppressed a sigh and said sardonically, "You can probably finish that sentence with any positive adjective except pregnant." Darcy frowned, and Lizzie rolled her eyes and snatched a piece of bacon from his plate. He supposed he wouldn't get a chance to say she had a way of drawing people to her and holding their interest that all the Ambers in the world couldn't compete with. Which, he reminded himself, was probably for the best. He didn't want her getting her hopes up because he'd gone all sentimental.

As she helped herself to another piece of the bacon he hadn't eaten yet (he shot her an amused look), it occurred to her that she ought to thank him for helping her out. "Thanks for..." Lizzie made an awkward waving hand gesture. How did one put that? Thanks for rescuing my perpetually-single-ass from my high school enemy? Thanks for not taking Amber up on her offer? She didn't need a man, of course, and she would've been fine on her own, but having a tall, handsome, rich piece of mancake staking a claim on her didn't exactly hurt. It felt kind of nice to rub Amber's face in it for a change. She smiled gratefully. "You totally didn't have to do that." She licked the grease off of her fingers distractedly, savoring the taste, and Darcy swallowed hard.

Darcy shook his head slowly, setting his fork down. He was uncomfortable with Lizzie's gratitude; he'd barely done anything, and it wasn't as if he actually would've gone for Amber in any universe. She was so surprised that it was almost insulting to think she knew him so little. "No, I did," he said solemnly, looking down. Lizzie tilted her head to the side, leaning in and giving him a curious look. He could feel her eyes burning through him and looked up. "I know what it feels like," he said after a moment. Lizzie's eyes narrowed slightly; somehow she doubted he knew what it was like to feel unattractive, unwanted, and inadequate. He kept his eyes on her. "I wasn't always... I was awkward growing up," he volunteered.

He could've gone on and said that he never knew how to talk to girls, or that he grew up playing the shadow to George's sun (kind of like her and Jane, he supposed, but minus the competition). He could've talked about how uncomfortable he still was in social situations, how he never knew the right words to say or how to feign interest in other people's conversations. He didn't have a lot in common with most other men his age, let alone the women, and he rarely made good first impressions. He could've said all of this, but he chose not to. He didn't like to dwell on his failings.

Even he knew that would be bad form in dealing with a woman. "Will, women love confidence. Don't get me wrong, some girls go for the quiet, serious guy writing love letters and reciting poetry, but confidence will get you everywhere," George had advised him with a smirk and a wink. He remembered how George would clap him on the shoulder and tell him, shaking his head, "Bro, you just have to learn how to sell yourself better. You have a lot of pluses, but you don't know how to articulate them... and if you don't know your best qualities, how do you expect anyone else to?" He took George's advice more to hear than he was willing to admit to himself most of the time.

Lizzie wanted to point out that he hadn't exactly stopped being awkward, but she supposed he meant either that he was more awkward then or that he actually looked as awkward as he acted sometimes. It probably couldn't have been easy for him in any situation where he had to fit in. Darcy could not fit in anywhere to save his life. She nodded like she understood, though, patting him on the hand. He would've taken the opportunity to hold her hand again, but at that very moment, the bill came.

Lizzie insisted on a split check before Darcy could even open his mouth. He was disappointed for the same reason Lizzie was relieved. The waitress gave Darcy a pitying look and went off to get their checks while Lizzie busied herself with stacking their mostly empty plates. She needed to do something with her hands to distract from everything else unnerving that had happened. Darcy was more of a real person than usual, which was weird, but the sex and the visit to IHOP had taken a lot of the energy out of her, and now she was feeling full, happy, and sleepy like she should be. Hell, she was even smiling lazily at Darcy, which was a clear sign that something was up.

Darcy was no less full but perhaps a bit less tired than his companion. It was strange to be out with Lizzie, alone, in a place that was not one of their residences or his car in the library parking lot or on the way to Netherfield. The waitress returned a few moments later with both of their bills. She'd written her phone number on Darcy's, but he didn't even gratify her by looking up at her. The waitress was undoubtedly somewhat amused to note that Lizzie paid in bills, and Darcy paid with one of those ridiculous limitless credit cards in black or gold or platinum.

She took their checks and returned with change for Lizzie and more paper for Darcy, frowning slightly. Lizzie left a ten to fifteen percent tip, consisting mostly of odd change, while Darcy signed his name almost illegibly and was far more generous than the service warranted. He figured she needed the money far more than he did, working at a 24-hour restaurant on the night shift for less than minimum wage. That being done, they left the IHOP with little more than a wave to the Hills. As they left, of course, the entire party broke out into whispers about it (which would've mortified Lizzie if she'd heard).

Darcy beat Lizzie to the car and opened the door for her. She mumbled a thanks as she got in, and Darcy walked around it and got in the passenger's side. Not exactly feeling up for conversation, Lizzie turned on the radio to a channel that was playing dance remixes of popular summer hits. Darcy barely resisted grimacing, but the obvious distaste on his face (it looked like he swallowed a lemon) made her snort. He leaned back into his seat, getting comfortable—or as comfortable as he could while she was playing dance music. Darcy had mostly given up the idea of trying to redeem himself to her through dance; whenever he tried, she either shot him down or he came off looking the worse for it.

Naturally, Lizzie was absentmindedly bobbing her head to the beat and tapping her fingertips against the steering wheel. Darcy forced himself not to look out her and instead stared at the dark landscape, trying to discern where they were. After a minute or so of this, the song changed to a particularly familiar and infectious tune. Darcy wanted to groan, instantly recognizing it as the song he'd attempted to get Lizzie to dance to. He should've been relieved she said no, really, because it was a fast song, and he was absolutely no good at that kind of dancing... which would've required either a more skilled dancer like Fitz or Lizzie to be completely pressed up against him. Actually, he wouldn't have minded the latter, but it would've ended awkwardly and in a way that was probably not fit for the innocent eyes of Bing and Jane.

Lizzie liked the song in a trashy, guilty pleasure sort of way and turned it up, rolling down her window and starting to sing along. Darcy closed his eyes, letting the sound of her voice run over him, and wondered just what the hell he was doing. Had he really just gone to IHOP at four in the morning with a woman who unironically enjoyed Top 40 radio and Hollywood movies and was mostly unimpressed with him? How had he ended up here? What was driving him to do this to himself? He ran a hand over his eyes; how could this not end messy? Nothing about Lizzie was neat or orderly or organized at all.

The song changed, but Lizzie still hummed along, paying little attention to her companion, until she pulled into her parking spot at the library. Darcy looked up when he heard the car stop, realizing he'd been drifting off. Lizzie turned to him, smiling. "You know, the look on Amber's face was priceless," she exclaimed, slapping a hand on her thigh and letting out the laugh she'd suppressed in the restaurant. Her laugh made something in Darcy's chest loosen and fall into place, and he felt a little lighter for hearing it. After a long moment, she straightened, still grinning, brushing some hair out of her face. He wished he could do that for her. "I owe you one, Darce," she said meaningfully.

He almost smiled but didn't want to seem as eager as he was, although the way the light in her eyes was dancing was doing something to his insides. He sort of smirked instead, raising his eyebrows in a way that was very unlike him, and leaned in. "Well, I'm sure you can find a way to make it up to me somehow," he quipped suggestively, staring right back into her eyes. His gaze dropped to her lips briefly, and he didn't realize it, but Lizzie did the same. Instead of kissing her on the mouth as he wanted to, Darcy unfastened his seatbelt and put one hand on her cheek, staring at her for a moment.

She didn't push him away like usual, so maybe they were getting somewhere—and what was he thinking?! He didn't want them to go anywhere with this; they couldn't! There was no future in any of it, and thinking otherwise, even contemplating it, was fair to neither of them. He stared into those beautiful ocean-colored eyes of hers for a moment before leaning in the rest of the way and pressing his lips to her cheek. Lizzie was eerily still, her eyes open wide. She had not expected that, nor did she expect the way his lips lingered on her skin like they wanted to go down further. She wouldn't have minded that too much, she thought distractedly. She mumbled something mostly unintelligible as he pulled away, smoothing her cheek. "See you later, Darcy."

If he were anyone but Darcy, she might've said something like "I needed that" or some other words of reassurance and acknowledgment, but Darcy hardly needed the ego boost. Besides, she didn't want him getting any wrong ideas. He just nodded, taking his hands off of her and removing himself from his car. "Goodnight, Lizzie," he said softly. Just before he closed the door, he bent down and added, "Drive safe." Lizzie recognized it as his way of subtly reminding her to text him that she'd arrived home safely. He tended to get annoyed when she didn't do that, though she rather doubted he actually stayed up waiting for her text. But she supposed it was a nice, polite sentiment. She nodded, though, and then Darcy closed the door and walked back to his car, trying very hard not to look back. He always wanted a last glimpse of Lizzie.

He didn't exactly know what it was about Lizzie, but she simultaneously put him on edge and made him feel more at ease than he could ever remember feeling. What was he even supposed to make of that? Lizzie shook her head but watched him make his way to his car and pull out of the lot, going just a bit too fast as always. As if he were _that_ eager to be away from her and done with this cloak-and-dagger BS. Lizzie sighed and headed back home, every moment still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

She was trying not to think about the fact that she and Darcy had been out together in public, almost like this was something it wasn't. Whether that was friendship or something more, she didn't entirely know, but it was not good. No one had caught them out, jumping out to say "Gotcha!" like she'd half-expected. Since when did Darcy even want to be seen in public with her? Then again, she didn't exactly think he was the kind of guy who had sex in library parking lots with girls he barely knew, so maybe there was more to Darcy than what she expected. Nothing had happened; the world hadn't ended. The universe hadn't imploded, and the sky hadn't fallen, but she was still waiting for some unspeakable disaster to befall them.

Maybe she'd built this all up in her head to be something bigger than it really was. She did that sometimes, in a way that was not wholly unlike something her mother was capable of.

She kinda felt like she deserved it for what she was doing, as ridiculous as that sounded. But maybe no one was really ever going to find out. Maybe it would remain a secret forever, and it would just be one of those things, no strings, and she'd tell her daughters about it when they were her age. With time she'd just chalk it up to youth, boredom, and horniness. She didn't have much better to do, after all. Lizzie grimaced, wrinkling her nose; that didn't even sound good in her head.

Still, it seemed strange that they'd so many near-misses without getting caught. She didn't _have_ that kind of luck. She felt like she was pushing the unspoken boundaries of this little arrangement, every push just chancing it further, and it was only a matter of time before the whole mess unraveled, and her web of lies was exposed. And ugh, this whole thing must be mixing her up a lot more than she thought since she was mixing metaphors! Just the fact that she was having sex with _anyone_, much less the mysterious stranger she'd danced with at Ellen Gibson's wedding, was pushing it.

It almost seemed a little too good to be true... so it probably was.

- Loren ;*


	10. In the Way

So, first off, I must say that you are some of the most persistent reviewers I have ever had in badgering me for an update (especially you, Erin :) ), which is saying quite a bit. And to be honest that's part of the reason why I'm updating. This chapter is the one that took me the longest to write. I wrote the first part back in, I dunno, September or October or something, and then it was kind of "well, what am I going to do with the rest of it?" So you get random literature chat and a bit of info on both Darcy and Lizzie's pasts, but, erm, different info. That's partly because I had to rewrite some stuff to accommodate Pemberley, and partly because it was just such a frustrating chapter since I knew not much was going to happen. And then also because I essentially lost all my desire to write LBD fic in about the past month or so. So I apologize if this chapter is kind of crap.

The Lizzie stuff was more from me kind of wanting to start to get at why she is the way she is... and the Darcy stuff is honestly from me being frustrated at the way people generally assume him becoming CEO happened and wanting to make it actually realistic. Because realistically D-Money would've had to jump through a lot of hoops, and he still wouldn't have been granted it automatically and probably would've had some sort of showdown with Cathy. I'm also assuming he did business school and in a year because business schools are generally faster places and they do the whole module system of grad school for the most part. As a grad student, the way LBD depicts grad school kind of makes me cry inside at the inaccuracy, but, sadly, those are dilemmas I will never be able to resolve in this fic.

Anyway, the next chapter will be up much, much sooner because I just have to edit up the end a bit to make it prettier. And also because I'm really excited for that chapter. So that will probably happen sometime around Monday or Tuesday, depending. Or earlier. We'll see. And the chapter after that will be up probably sometime within the next week or so of that, depending on my life and schedule and whatnot. And after that I don't know because they're all so fragmentary and unfinished.

Let's see... still don't own LBD. Or any of the books or people mentioned. I just own this plot, which is only really mine and only really theoretically possible until the novelization comes out. So yeah.

Hope you enjoy, and review if it pleases or displeases you!

* * *

Lizzie fell forward into Darcy's lap, breathing heavily. Her sweaty skin was sticky against his. Ordinarily she'd have already pulled away, but she felt boneless at the moment and could only lean against him, trying to catch her breath. Her whole body was sore, aching in the best way. She'd probably overexerted herself, though, since she couldn't even summon up the energy to lift herself off of him. Darcy let her recline against him, sitting up a bit more so that the position was more comfortable for them both. Her cheek was resting on one of his pectorals, her head turned in towards his neck, almost but not quite fitting into the crook of it so that Darcy could almost rest his head on hers. He could feel her breath on his neck, tickling his throat, and he smiled a little at the feeling.

He had loosely wrapped an arm around her back so she didn't fall off of him, but he didn't bother to pull up the sheets, content to let the air conditioning cool their feverish skin. As it was, however, he had more energy than she did, enough for him to push back her matted hair. Lizzie mumbled something incomprehensible into his chest; the movement of her lips made something in his chest rumble. For a few moments they stayed like this, laying there in peace, Lizzie's body still wrapped around his. That was a rarity.

It was even rarer still that Darcy got the time to admire her like this, unmolested. Sometimes he looked a bit too long, and she would give him one of those piercing looks that all but told him to screw himself and indicated she was about to leave in a huff. It seemed like she was always hurrying out of his bed. He stroked the small of her back absently, and Lizzie shivered a little, curling into him for warmth just a little bit more. His dopey smile had widened so much by this point that anyone in town who thought they knew him would think him a completely different man (and, in a way, they'd be right). Even his close friends would've probably been surprised at the blissed-out look on his face. If Darcy could've seen himself in a mirror, he would've paled at the realization that he was indeed so dangerously content.

He gazed down at the pale but still slightly flushed skin, counting the freckles and birthmarks silently, his eyes tracking along her body, still amazed at how tiny she was compared to him. He couldn't see much of her face, but her eyes were closed, almost as if she were asleep and not merely just resting. What he saw of her seemed content or, at the very least, satisfied, and Darcy felt a ridiculous rush of pride in that knowledge. He was trying not to think about how right this felt or how he couldn't recall ever being so perfectly comfortable in his entire life and how he could just... stay like this for, if not forever... well, quite a long time. Shades of these thoughts struck him and, realizing the dangerous direction his thoughts were turning, Darcy swallowed hard and broke the silence.

"What do you want to do after grad school?" he rasped, licking dry lips. That was a moodkiller, all right. Lizzie lifted her head up off of his chest and looked directly into his eyes. He'd never realized how green her eyes were up-close, but upon further inspection he saw that they looked almost blue. It had taken him a while to understand that they changed color depending on the light and what she was wearing. Lizzie blinked a few times, making an indistinct noise that was half-grunt and half-groan. Then she shifted against him as if trying to find a more comfortable position, probably so she could talk to him better.

After a while, she gave up, merely resting her chin on one of her arms, still staring up at him. For a moment she looked away, absorbing the words she half-thought she'd imagined. Given the typically intense way he was looking at her, he actually seemed serious about wanting to know. Was this normal pillow talk? She hadn't quite given it too much thought, but she knew she wanted something fulfilling, preferably something in her field. She had big dreams and a big vision, but she didn't know how to get there. She wanted to change the world or the culture, but what did that really mean? What good was wanting change and to do good if you had no idea what the hell you were doing? Maybe Charlotte had more of a point in selling out than she'd previously thought. She shrugged as best she could, considering her position. "Not exactly sure," she mumbled, looking up at him through her lashes.

Her eyes stared off to the side, a faraway look in them. He wondered at the way her eyes clouded over, seeming more blue, like the ocean, than the smoky green he remembered from earlier. He couldn't know it for sure (and why would he?), but she was thinking of Charlotte. She'd been rethinking a lot of things lately, and she wasn't entirely sure what she wanted, hence probably part of the reason why she was in a bed with Darcy. If she'd been wrong about Charlotte, it made her wonder what else she could've been mistaken about... After a moment of reflection, Lizzie replied, "Something in Mass Communication. Maybe journalism or working in New Media. I'm pretty flexible."

Darcy let out a low chuckle at that, and Lizzie wrinkled her nose at him, swatting him lightly on the chest. "Not what I meant, Darcicles." He grinned at her lopsidedly, wondering if she'd ever called him by a nickname before and finding himself surprisingly excited about it, but her gaze was on his chest. She frowned, remembering that previous job offer. "Just as long as I'm doing something meaningful, not making bad reality TV." She rubbed one of her shoulders absently, her shoulders firming up a bit. "I like telling stories," she mumbled, not exactly knowing why she said it. He didn't really know about that side of her for the obvious reasons. She felt silly even telling him that, but that and this, well, they felt like totally different lives.

The girl who wrote and performed plays in her backyard wasn't the sort of girl who would have a summer fling, much less with a man she barely knew and respected, as "romantic" as a summer affair with a mysterious stranger seemed. Lizzie stared at her headboard, suppressing a sigh.

Darcy smiled a little; though not a storyteller himself, he appreciated those who had things to say and knew how to say them. His grandfather had been that kind of man, which was why he'd started Pemberley Digital in the first place all those years ago. She turned over, shivering a little. "Why are you so cold?" she muttered, moving and trying to find a patch of warm skin. In response Darcy pulled up the sheets, placing the other hand on her back and rubbing up and down and over the curve of her spine. Lizzie wouldn't admit it, but it felt nice. She moved a little closer, still seeking warmth.

"Any places you're looking at in particular?" Darcy asked, shifting so that he could set his chin on her head. Lizzie could sense that it was a leading question, that he was trying to get her to say something so it could go a certain way, but her wits were failing her. She wasn't exactly in the habit of trying to please Darcy anyway, so anticipating what he wanted her to do aside from his typical bedroom proclivities was fairly difficult.

She dropped a few big names in slightly different fields and mentioned some smaller companies she'd noticed, including the client she'd done her practicum in social media for, Lambton Enterprises. For some reason Darcy seemed to take a particular interest in that, even asking her to describe the project, which she did. She had no difficulty talking, especially about something that had been the better part of her life for three and a half months. Darcy kind of smiled and seemed interested in what she had to say, and he even asked a few fairly intelligent questions, which further threw Lizzie off.

Then he asked her if she liked the experience of working for them. There was a strange eagerness in his eyes. Lizzie had enjoyed it, actually, very much, and the client had enjoyed her team's work (and hers in particular) so much that the supervisor they'd worked with said that they were going to show it to their company's CEO. High praise indeed. They'd told her to apply just before finishing her degree as education was very important to them, but that they were very interested in seeing more of her work. "I did, actually. I really liked the way they ran things, and I like all the things they do with charities," she said, smiling a little at the thought of working for a company that was actually socially responsible.

Unbeknown to her, Darcy was smiling. It would've been the perfect time to mention his very intimate connection with the very company (it was a subsidiary of Pemberley Digital) she'd mentioned, but he didn't want to make things awkward, not while Lizzie was still here on top of him. "You know," he began with an affected air of nonchalance, rubbing her back absently, "I think I know of a few openings in different outlets. I could get you a meeting with my head of HR." Darcy bit the inside of his cheek, hoping that had come off more casual than it had sounded. He felt fairly confident that Anne Reynolds would like her. Indeed, Darcy didn't see a way anyone could dislike Lizzie if they saw what he did. Lizzie twisted abruptly in his arms, jerking her head out from under his, causing his jaw and head to drop rather painfully.

She was suddenly tense in his arms, looking up at him challengingly, her neck held high. "Thanks, Darcy, but no thanks," she said with a snort. Darcy looked down, jaw tightening, and Lizzie sighed, realizing how that had sounded. She hadn't actually meant it to come out so biting; the offer was unexpectedly, undeservedly generous, even if it was completely wrong. "I just... think it's not the best way to start out..." she began delicately, her voice turning a bit caustic later, "getting a job just because I happen to be sleeping with the guy who owns the company."

Lizzie played with her fingers, biting her tongue to prevent herself from saying how insultingly prostitute-like it made her feel, like Darcy was her sugar-daddy or something? Much less needing a man to get a job rather than getting one on her own merits? His proposal had a few too many unfortunate implications, chief among them being that she'd have to work with Darcy and see him fairly frequently, and, God, would she still be expected to _screw_ him if she said yes? Accepting even the _potential_ of a job offer through Darcy was in some ways even worse than accepting Collins' offer. The selling out was a bit more literal (and physical) in this case.

Darcy shut his eyes, silently grimacing. He did actually think she would fit in well somewhere at his Pemberley, and of course he'd heard a bit about her practicum. Such things did not escape his notice. He didn't make such offers to people he wasn't generally impressed with, and if anything, Lizzie Bennet had managed to make quite the impression on him. Even her refusal of his offer somehow impressed him; few people, if any, would refuse him anything, much less career assistance or a job offer in their desired field. Her inability to be intimidated by him was in of itself nothing short of amazing, and he liked that she didn't hesitate to stand up to him if she thought he was wrong. His company could use more people like her. He'd also be lying to himself if he didn't admit that a part of him had made the offer solely because he liked the idea of getting to see her more often.

The chief part of her appeal was in how she played hard-to-get, how she didn't automatically transform herself into the woman she thought he wanted, how she didn't appeal to his vanity and didn't seem phased by him in general. Everyone else in his life deferred to his superior experience or judgment or his-insert-exemplary-quality here, and sometimes it kind of grated at him. His father had said something once about how there was a certain danger in being a bit too accustomed to getting your own way all the time. "It'll turn even the best man into a tyrant, William," he'd said.

Everyone around him was careful. They were careful with the words they used around him and about him. They were afraid to upset him, to be honest with him. They were afraid to tell him unpleasant things, even though he'd given them no reason to be. It was, in a way, flattering to know that his staff respected and idolized him so much that they genuinely cared about his well-being and what he thought... even if he sometimes felt it a bit much or... misplaced. But Lizzie, bless her, had the guts to tease him and did so without even blinking an eyelash or thinking of how he might potentially be offended. The novelty of it, the unsurmountable challenge she presented, was more arousing than he cared to admit—and probably more than that still.

It was also becoming alarmingly more apparent to him that they were building something here, quite against his will.

He opened his eyes slowly when he became aware that Lizzie's fingers were tracing shapes on his chest. Lizzie generally touched him only when it was absolutely necessary, and such lazy, lingering touches were rare. She was strangely shy about such things. Lizzie's fingers stilled when he met her gaze, and she looked down, her cheeks flushing faintly. There were no words between them now. Lizzie was trying not to think about how glad she was that her mother would _never_ know this had happened; she'd probably have a heart attack (or panic attack, come to think of it) from finding out that her daughter was doing one of the richest and most eligible young men in the country, let alone the fact that he'd just sort of offered to put in a good word for her professionally. Her mother's anger and lack of comprehension at her rejection of yet another "perfectly good offer" might just be enough to finally push Lizzie (or her mother) over the edge. Rejecting two job offers in less than a week, well, that had to be some sort of record, didn't it?

She didn't doubt that Darcy would make good on such a promise, or, that, in this sense he was a man of his word. Nor did she doubt that Darcy's word was worth a lot in the industry. However, she didn't want to owe him anything but this. She didn't want him to feel like he had to somehow pay her back for silence and sleeping with him in financial or professional terms. And she didn't want to get such a job just because she knew Darcy, just because he had some sort of sympathy towards her because of her questionable skills in the bedroom. If he'd offered because he thought she was smart or capable or because he thought she was professional or perfect for a position, she might've considered it before rejecting it, but Darcy had mentioned none of these things.

She shoved his chest lightly, attempting to push herself off of him. His hands tightened around her back like he didn't want to let her go. Lizzie huffed a little, pushing herself up so that she was suspended over him, though parts of their lower abdomens and limbs were still touching. Her thin arms ached from the strain of pulling her weight up. She eased up onto her knees, pulling away from him, arms shaking a little as she lifted herself off of him. She let out a low groan as they separated. He grunted, feeling suddenly bereft and cold now that he was no longer inside her.

Lizzie flopped onto her stomach next to him. Maddeningly, her body was just far enough away from his that they weren't touching. His hands had fallen to his sides, fingers clenching into fists, when she'd pulled away. He could still feel the heat radiating off of her body, could still reach for her if he mustered up the courage, but he didn't dare. Lizzie rested her head on the pillow, eyelids fluttering, and opened her mouth with the intention of asking him to leave. Darcy, however, wanting to prolong this moment for as long as possible, asked suddenly, "Who's your favorite character in _Harry Potter_?" It wasn't what he'd intended to ask, but it had come out after he'd noticed all of the books on her shelf.

Lizzie put a hand over her mouth, stifling an incredulous laugh. "You read _Harry Potter_?" she asked, raising herself up a bit to peer over at him. She'd barely stopped herself from asking if that wasn't a bit too mainstream for him, right up there with the undeserving paperback novels that the likes of Nora Roberts and John Grisham had written that were sold in supermarkets and pharmacies.

Darcy nodded. "Of course," he said, putting a hand behind his head. Lizzie tried not to watch the way his abdominal muscles shifted. She relaxed her shoulders and elbows, flopping back down. "I read them to Gigi before she went to bed," he explained fondly, his free hand tracing the sheet beneath him. Lizzie smiled to herself, largely in spite of herself, remembering how she'd convinced Jane to help her read the books to Lydia, who detested reading. It was an early attempt to educate her sister, and they'd had to tailor the reading to her sister's dramatic tastes, which was part of how she'd first began communicating things to others and acting things out. She'd written stories and plays before that, told stories too, but every evening it was a new saga before sending Lydia to bed.

He looked over at her, and his smile widened at the sight of a soft smile on her lips, though he could hardly know she was thinking of her own little sister. He hesitated a moment but, buoyed by the sight of her grin, he reached over and lightly touched her arm. Her attention snapped back to him, and she remembered after a moment that he'd asked her a question. "Oh, who's my favorite character? Hermione, no question," Lizzie said without pausing to think about it. She turned to look at Darcy, wondering which Harry Potter character he'd be... He was certainly as arrogant, snobby, and rude as Draco Malfoy, but his manners (or lack thereof), unpleasant disposition, and general snarkiness, as well as his coloring and build, were more reminiscent of Snape. She turned away, making a face at the comparison. "Yours?" she asked.

Darcy was silent for a moment, thinking. "Snape." Lizzie rolled her eyes unseen; he could be so predictable sometimes. Once again, his pinkie finger edged towards Lizzie's hand, but Lizzie moved her hand before he could make contact. Darcy glanced over and frowned; he was able to take a hint. Darcy sighed and resumed staring up at the ceiling, once again reminded of why he related to the character. "He's probably Gigi's favorite too," he said a moment later. He chuckled dryly after another moment, thinking of his sister. "She liked that he was misunderstood and complicated. Something very romantic about the anti-hero, I guess." He shrugged. "My sister likes Byronic heroes." Lizzie shifted to look at him as he said this and caught sight of a strangely dark expression on his face. She could only wonder at its meaning.

She settled for snorting instead, causing Darcy to shift to look at her, his brow quizzical. "I'm not a fan of them," Lizzie explained dismissively, crossing her arms over her chest, "Heathcliff and all that... they're assholes who play with your mind. "Mad, bad, and dangerous to know," right?" Darcy was heartened to hear that, and his lips curved up into a small smile. Lizzie didn't notice, though, because she was busy talking. "The only heroes more useless are the superfluous men Russians are always writing about who do nothing and yet have good women falling all over them!" she continued contemptuously. The veiled mention of Russian literature made Darcy smile in a way that Russian literature had never made anyone, including the authors, smile and stifle a chuckle. Russian literature was now inclined to do such things to him.

"Not much of a Romantic, then, are you?" he remarked idly, raising a brow. He was a bit surprised, actually, given her general fondness for dramatics. It was even stranger since he knew that she liked nature; when she'd been at Netherfield he'd often seen her out walking, exploring the property. It seemed precisely like the sort of thing she'd be into, but maybe it was just the baggage that came with it that she disliked. Perhaps, though, he mused, he shouldn't be surprised, knowing of her distaste for poetry.

Lizzie made a face, throwing a hand in front of her eyes. The way he'd said it had struck home in a way that was unintentionally... something. Truthfully, she didn't much mind the Romantics, though she found them a bit over-the-top and in love with themselves sometimes. They were all about idealism and natural beauty and individualism, after all, and she agreed with all of those things. But Lizzie was no slave to her feelings either, no stranger to the fact that her perspective may not always be the right one. She was rational, not sensible. "Nor Gothic, I'm afraid," she replied equally solemnly, with a bit of a wry smile. Of course, they'd had enough conversations about it that even Lizzie would admit that Darcy probably knew her literary tastes fairly well if he was paying any attention at all. She could've gone on if she'd wanted to, but, honestly, she just wanted to fall asleep. She didn't even want to have to put her clothes on and get up to escort him out of her house.

He frowned. Lizzie wondered idly if he realized that that particular expression made him look like one of the heroes in the aforementioned novels—dark, mysterious, and brooding, blackish hair falling into his eyes. "You like Poe," he countered, gesturing to the thick volume somewhere on her shelf. Unlike the collection in his temporary bedroom, this one was not for show. He mused that he'd forgotten to bring back her copy of _Much Ado About Nothing_... but maybe he could get away with holding onto it a bit longer.

"Well, he's not a Transcendentalist, now is he?" she remarked, rolling her eyes. The world wasn't all sunshine and roses, and Lizzie knew that, of course. She rather disliked some of their self-righteous moralizing (and, yes, Charlotte, she did see the irony in that). She also liked a good mystery and sometimes had a taste for the darker side of life, hence Poe's appeal. Lizzie waved it off distractedly, letting out a loud yawn. "I bought that book in my I-hate-the-world-phase when I was thirteen and "emotastic" as Lydia put it." If she'd been up to it, she might've pointed out that she had most of the classics of American literature there, which Darcy should well have known. "I was trying to be _deep_," she continued mockingly.

Darcy quirked a brow yet again, shifting closer to her so that their skin touched. She stiffened a little but didn't move away. He didn't think she had to try; after all, he had months of in-depth study of her, and he still couldn't figure her out. And it bothered him immensely when he didn't have everything all figured out. Lizzie said nothing but pulled the sheets up a little higher. She still had goosebumps. "I can't see that at all. You're so... upbeat," he countered.

Lizzie threw him a mildly amused look before jabbing him hard in the chest. He thought she was upbeat, of all the things to think her? Did he know her so little, or was everyone upbeat compared to him? He hadn't insisted she was deep, though. "To you, maybe, Doom and Gloom," she replied. Darcy blinked, unsure what to make of that. The poke had hurt. Was that a joke or an insult, or a term of endearment? "To my sisters and mother I'm a dark cloud to their silver lining," she mumbled, turning over in her bed, turning away from him. Darcy rubbed his chest distractedly, tracing his eyes along her side longingly. After a moment, his fingers followed the same path as his eyes.

She grunted, absently swatting his hand away as if he were a fly. Darcy frowned. "Don't you have a conference call or something?" she muttered a bit irritably, wishing he would just let her sleep. Darcy had made kind of a big deal about squeezing her in for a mid-afternoon quickie because of his oh-so-busy life, and yet here he was taking his sweet time! It was rare that they were in a house together totally alone, so she probably would've understood if she wasn't so damn tired.

It was one of those lazy, hot summer days when Lizzie didn't even feel like getting out of bed, much less going outside.

Darcy froze and stiffened at her words. She was right, as a quick glance at her alarm clock told him. He had a conference call in about an hour. How had time slipped past him like that? He never let time get away from him usually. After a moment, he reached across her to grab his phone, reaching out to scan the emails he'd received since he'd last checked before coming here. He'd gotten twenty-something emails, ten of which were marked urgent. He stifled a groan, shifting back down onto his back, and closed his eyes. He didn't want to deal with _any_ of it, much less now.

It took a moment for the thought to sink in, and when it did, he didn't even feel like himself. When had he ever said, much less thought "not today, not now" since becoming CEO? He'd grown up always knowing his place, as the inevitable head of his family's media empire. The company was his birthright, his family's legacy—he couldn't turn his back on that even if he wished to. It was just as much a part of him, in his blood, as his DNA. He had never allowed himself to want anything different. Perhaps he might've, if his father hadn't died so young, but he hadn't grown up with the luxury of having options.

It had taken him much longer to realize that Pemberley was his way of feeling close to his family.

He'd spent all of his life, it seemed, working to achieve his current position. Darcy had interned in Pemberley's offices for years in the summers, both at headquarters and in the branch offices. His father had groomed him and trained him as much as he could before... What his father hadn't been able to do or teach him, Anne Reynolds, his aunt Catherine, and the rest of the board members were all too happy to fill him in on. After his father had died, all of the company fell to him and Gigi. He'd been foisted into a position he couldn't fill, one he hadn't wanted. And he'd had a choice, then. He could've sold everything, the way half of the board wanted to, the half who didn't know him or believe in him.

It had never been in his nature to disappoint or to do the easy thing, so he'd clung to the company. It had been his brass ring, in sight and so close, but just out of reach.

Pemberley Digital was put in trust, to be overseen by Reynolds and a few other head executives his father had trusted until he was at least twenty-one. There were lots of stipulations, of course, but that was nothing new. His father had always had exacting standards, and he'd always encouraged his son to rise to any challenge put before him. It had never really been a choice, though, because he would've done anything for his father's approval. And so it was that even after his father's death, Darcy found himself striving to fulfill all of his father's expectations.

It was a lot of jumping through hoops, his very own Twelve Trials. As much as Darcy hated it or begrudged the nigh-impossible task set before him to get what he want, he swallowed that resentment down and focused on doing what he had to do. He didn't have any time to think of anything else but achieving his father's mile-markers one after another.

Get into Harvard. Double-major in business and something related to the arts, for his mother, so he could understand the artistic side of his business. Graduate top of his class. Get an MBA at one of the top business schools. Socialize as required with people from good families. Seek out future innovators and technology geniuses. Attend cultural and artistic events. Sponsor the arts. Donate time, energy, and money to the less fortunate.

Take care of his sister. Hire a nanny to look after her. Make sure Gigi goes to a good school and has good grades. Make sure she's associating with the right people. Help her to grow up. Give her a position at the company so that she knows where she came from. Honor his heritage by visiting the family ancestral homes in England. Preside over all the plans and construction for the Anne F. and William S. Darcy Memorial Hall. Attend the groundbreaking and ribbon-cutting ceremony with his sister at his side. (These were his duties too, the unofficial ones.)

Follow the market every day. Learn to anticipate and then set trends. Tour all of Pemberley's offices and familiarize himself with them. Memorize all the employees' names. Learn what each department does from a micro-level. Keep apprised of company developments. Talk with those running Pemberley on a daily basis. Attend monthly board meetings. And on and on and on until one day they decided he was ready to be CEO. He was 23 and six months out of business school.

And even then, once he became CEO, it wasn't really much different. He was as ready as he could be, but that first year, he felt like he was drowning, just treading water, never doing enough. He didn't feel like he knew what he was doing or that he was getting used to it. Most of the board still looked at him askance, like they still expected him to do something stupid. He overheard a few of them saying things like, "I don't care if he's Bill's son. He's still wet around the ears. I don't care how smart he is... He's been here for five minutes, and he's not even old enough to rent a car! How can anyone take him seriously?"

Another had just sighed and said, "Look, I admire what the Kid's (half of them called him The Kid behind his back like they thought he was Peter Pan or a character from a Prince movie or something equally ridiculous) trying to do here. He's got his heart in the right place, and he's bright and all that, sure... But how seriously do you really think he takes this? He has absolutely no idea what he's gotten into."

Sometimes Darcy thought they were right.

Whenever Reynolds heard them saying things like this, though, she briskly shut them down by pointing out that he had prepared for this extensively and that his father had entrusted him with the company because he'd believed in them. She also laughed in their faces and told them that _no_ _one_ had ever accused Darcy of not being serious. To him privately she'd said not to worry about the Board, that half of them were idiots and most of them knew nothing about how to run a business.

So he put everything he had into the company and practically lived at the office. He lived to prove the board members and investors who thought he couldn't do it wrong. That didn't leave much room for anything else, especially the healthy social life William had always been reluctant to have. Somewhere down the line he'd streamlined his life and all of his relationships with it, and in a way, it was too late to undo the damage. He didn't have many friends left, but, then, he didn't have much patience for that kind of thing. His workaholic tendencies were habit now.

Of course, he couldn't sleep most nights that first year out of fear that he was somehow disappointing his father, that he was going to fail, that he suddenly had so many people who depended on him to do the right thing. He'd felt like he was drowning, like he was just endlessly treading water, doing everything he could just to keep his head above the surface. He was always working, always living up to his obligations and responsibilities. And then he'd finally fallen into routines and stopped one day in his second year to realize that this was his life now, and he was managing it okay.

He almost felt like himself again, but he'd lost who he was before his father died, probably forever. He relaxed a little, but not much, and he'd gone on that way more or less until Bing's suggestion of a long-overdue summer vacation, and Darcy having no good reason to say no or stay in the office when everything could be done over the phone, email, or via videoconferencing software ("You have a _digital_ business, Darcy. The only reason why you even _have_ an office is for tradition and tax purposes."). He'd loosened up a little. Still, he'd spent most of his "vacation" working, much to Bing and Caroline's chagrin.

Of course, his growing fascination with Lizzie Bennet had disrupted his routines and made focusing on anything that wasn't her considerably difficult. Darcy was never the kind to postpone for tomorrow what could be done today. He had to keep his eyes on everything, to pay attention to everything, to know everything. He excelled at the sort of tedious, detail-intensive work that his peers disdained. So it was very strange for him to suddenly realize that he didn't want to work today at all or to be bound to any of the many things he was obligated to do. And even though that feeling was completely alien to his nature, he felt oddly happy with it.

But Darcy opened his eyes and shook himself from his thoughts. Today was not a day to take off. He sat up and reached over for his clothes, starting to get dressed. Lizzie smiled into the pillow, glad he was leaving. Darcy dressed fairly quickly, and sat back down on the bed to put his shoes on. As he did this, he looked over his shoulder and saw Lizzie there, lightly dozing. A feeling of tenderness welled up in him, and he found himself reaching out for her without much thought, lightly shaking her. "Lizzie..." She mumbled something and attempted to shoo him away, but Darcy merely scooted closer and shook her a bit more. "Liz, come on. You need to get dressed," he told her a bit more sternly, shaking her until she turned to look up at him, bleary-eyed.

She huffed out a sigh but turned over and groped around for her underwear and dress. Darcy did, after all, have a point. She hardly wanted any of her family members to walk in on her napping naked later; it would lead to many awkward questions and additional scrutiny she didn't want. Lizzie sat up, the blankets tumbling to her lap, and shimmied into her underwear. Darcy stared at her chest, dry-mouthed, wanting nothing more than to kiss her all over. Lizzie was in the process of getting her dress over her head, so she missed the intensity of his stare until she was pulling her dress down. When she noticed it, she rolled her eyes, giving him a look. "Stop looking at me like that. You're not gonna get another round."

Darcy merely chuckled, refraining from mentioning that he didn't have the time for another one. In truth, he probably did, but he was already pushing it. If he went after her again, there was almost no chance of him being focused enough to effectively conduct business. He turned around to get a proper look at her, and before he knew he was doing, he was leaning across her bed, sliding a hand across her cheek, and kissing her. Lizzie made a muffled sound of protest but pulled him back with her, easing back into the pillows.

Darcy followed her, caught up in the sensation. She wrapped an arm around his neck, throwing her head back. Lizzie hadn't had the time to tug her dress down far enough, so the hem rested rather precariously at the middle of her thighs. Darcy's free hand made its way down the outside of one of her thighs, and Lizzie's breath hitched. She let out a little moan. He started to settle between her thighs, sliding his hand down to her hip. His hand felt like it was burning a hole through the fabric.

Lizzie grunted, pushing him away. A confused Darcy stared down at her, wanting very much to kiss her again. "I told you, you're not getting a second round," she said, holding him at arms' length. "Now, come on, you should really get going before Jane or Lydia comes home." She gave him a look. "You really don't want to have to climb out of my bedroom window again, now do you?" Lizzie retorted. Darcy sighed and carefully extricated himself from her. But not before leaning down for one final long, lingering kiss.

He straightened his clothes and hair as best as he could. Lizzie watched and snorted at him. He threw her a dark look, which she ignored. "You can see yourself out," she muttered, too tired to get out of bed. For a moment, Darcy just stared at her, wondering how he should take that. Was she kicking him out or trusting him to be alone in her house? What did it mean?

Lizzie had already closed her eyes and pulled the covers over herself, fully intending on going back to sleep. However, when the moments passed, and she didn't hear him move or shut the door behind her, she let out a vaguely disgruntled noise and opened her eyes. "Darcy, don't you have work to do?" If she wasn't so tired, she would've said it in one of the self-important tones she used to mock him. It came out sounding more exhausted than anything.

Her voice snapped Darcy from his thoughts and reminded him that she was right. He needed to get his head on straight before his conference call. He turned back around to look at her, already seeming so at peace. He intended to say goodbye, but upon looking at her, the words died on his lips. He didn't want to say something that sounded so final. After a moment, he mustered up his courage enough to say, "I'll see you later." Then he collected his messenger bag and left the room briskly, closing the door behind him. He made one brief stop to the nearest bathroom to splash cold water on his face, hoping it would wake him up and reinvigorate him. Then he dried his face and made his way outside, still trying to gather his thoughts and forget about the woman who was currently consuming them, try as he might to distract himself.

To say that he had difficulty compartmentalizing and focusing on things other than her during his conference call would be an understatement.

Lizzie, meanwhile, was giving Darcy typically little thought. She was busy with the much more satisfying task of sleep. She found she got some of her best sleep after having sex. Lizzie was lightly napping, in the process of fully falling back asleep, when she heard a light tapping on her door. She rolled over, trying to ignore it, but then she heard the door creaking open. Her older sister's voice called her name hesitantly, "Lizzie?" Lizzie groaned, burying her face in the pillow. Why wouldn't anyone just let her sleep?

Jane noticed more than Lizzie knew. She had noticed that Lizzie had been doing laundry more often, especially her sheets. She'd noticed that Lizzie took the trash out of her bedroom more often. She'd also noticed that Lizzie's eyes were more watchful, though she seemed more distracted and flustered than usual. She knew enough to know her sister was keeping for her and that it had begun this summer. She could feel the distance between them growing and felt it keenly, as only a best friend could. She wanted to blame herself for it for being so preoccupied with Bing, but maybe there was something else... maybe it wasn't just her. "Can we... can we talk?" Jane's voice wavered a little, just enough to get Lizzie to roll over. It was not, however, enough to get her to pick her head up from the pillow.

Jane sat down on the edge of the bed, a bit less poised than usual, lacing and unlacing her fingers. Lizzie suppressed her annoyance. She loved Jane more than almost anyone in the world; she really did, but there were times when she wanted to be alone and away from them. "I'm sorry to bother you, Lizzie, really, but..." She trailed off, and Lizzie was sure that, if she'd looked up, she would've seen that her sister was chewing on the edge of her lip. Jane took a shaky breath, squaring her shoulders as if gathering the resolve to ask the question. "How do you know you're in love?"

At this, Lizzie picked her head up from the pillow and squinted at Jane. "I'm really the wrong Bennet to be asking for relationship advice, Jane," she retorted, trying not to ruin her mood with thoughts of her pathetic track record. Lizzie pushed herself up a little more onto her elbows, staring up at her sister's troubled face. "Remember, I'm perpetually single? What the hell do I know about relationships?" she said sarcastically, flashing Jane a self-deprecating smile. It didn't do to be super upset about such things, especially around such happy people. She would've usually attempted to laugh, but she wasn't quite in the mood.

Jane gave her a pleading look, all but saying that she couldn't go to anyone else about this, much less Lydia or their mother. Jane had no trouble making friends and never had, with her temperament, but she had no friends as close as her sisters. Her perfection could be a bit too much for people who hadn't grown up with it, and it was hard for Jane to be vulnerable around people she wasn't close with, as shy as she could get. Jane shook her head, smoothing her dress over her knees. "No... You're the one I wanted to ask. You've always known your own heart better than anyone else I know," she said quietly, trying to smile.

Lizzie closed her eyes, trying not to think about how she'd betrayed that statement earlier. But, then, she supposed she at least wasn't deluding herself into thinking she had feelings for Darcy. At least she wasn't lying to herself to make herself feel better about it. Jane paused for a moment, looking at Lizzie as if she didn't quite know what to say or how to say it. "How did you know you were in love with John?"

Lizzie's eyes shot open. She froze, suddenly very awake. "John?" she asked hesitantly, in a strange voice, wanting to bury her face in the pillow, to smother herself. She tried not to think about John Cass, hadn't thought about him in years. She tried very hard not to think about him, her one-time friend. She'd heard he moved to L.A. after graduation, and she tried not to wonder what had happened to him... if he was happy, if he was married or engaged or any of that. She blinked, distracted. "I, um..." It was rare that Lizzie found herself so utterly bereft of words, but dredging up ancient history was one way to do that.

She wouldn't have even answered, but Jane gave her those big eyes and that hopeful look she just couldn't refuse. Trying to refuse that look made her feel like she was clubbing a baby seal or something. "Fine." Lizzie sighed, turning over, putting a hand over her face and trying to remember. "I guess I knew... when he left for this stupid trip." A part of her still wanted to smile, as painful as the memories were now. It had been a trip for some club he was in or he'd gone home to see family, something like that. Something that seemed trivial in retrospect, given the number he'd done on her.

She tried not to remember, which was harder for her than most people since she remembered everything. Lizzie ran a hand through her hair in agitation. "He was gone for a week, and I just... I couldn't function, couldn't think, couldn't stop thinking about seeing him again. And I was so happy when I finally did that I just... knew." She shrugged hopelessly. She'd been lost when she threw herself into his arms. She'd seen what she'd wanted to see rather than what was actually there. Lizzie shot her sister a pleading look. "Don't make me talk about him anymore, Jane," Lizzie asked in a shaky voice. "I-I was... wrong about him." She had to force the word out, and it tasted bitter on her tongue.

Jane frowned. She and Lizzie hadn't talked much about it (not at all, really) because Lizzie never talked much about her romantic life if she could help it. Jane had known all the same that Lizzie had been upset, that she'd had her heart broken. She could read between the lines enough to know that, even if Lizzie had never exactly told her what happened. Just that John hadn't felt the same, that he'd thought differently... that she'd misjudged him. Something about thinking he was more than he was, that he was better than he was.

They'd been such close, good friends, and Jane had... well, she'd thought what Lizzie had. She'd thought John was good for her, that he was perfect for Lizzie, everything she was looking for. Jane remembered how John had come around all the time before, had practically lived at their house... and then he'd stopped coming by all of a sudden during Lizzie's sophomore year, and Lizzie wouldn't talk even about him. When their mother asked one day, Lizzie had completely gone off on her and stormed upstairs.

Lizzie flopped back down onto her pillow, blinking away tears and feeling silly for it. It had been a long time ago, almost five years. She should be totally over it... but you never forget your first. She exhaled deeply. "This is about Bing, isn't it?" Lizzie said suddenly, snapping Jane out of her thoughts. Jane nearly jumped, but her face with its hopeful, slightly imploring expression said it all. Lizzie sighed, trying to smooth her hair. She bit her lip, wondering if she should speak or not.

Her sister shifted, and Lizzie took that as her answer. "Jane... I know he's a great guy and everything, but you've only known him for a couple months. Don't you think you're taking this a bit too fast?" Jane pursed her lips, looking contemplative. Of course Lizzie wouldn't understand—she was deliberate and almost cynical at times. She looked before she leaped, and she led with her head, rather than her heart, as passionate as she was. She never fell into things. "I mean, what you do really know about him? Are you two even official?" Lizzie continued, the questions just bubbling out of her.

Jane was a bit taken aback by the sudden forcefulness of Lizzie's questions... and a bit uncertain about how to answer them. It wasn't in her nature to question things or to think anything less than the best about people. She knew what Lizzie was trying to do, but she didn't want to be like that. "I like the way things are going now..." She hesitated a moment, smiling a little.

She was too busy thinking about Bing to notice the darkening expression on Lizzie's face. She hadn't asked that last question for the sake of her viewers. Failure to clarify that was part of the reason why what happened with John happened, not that she'd told Jane that. You couldn't just assume you knew how someone else felt if you didn't ask. "And I l... You know how I feel about Bing." Jane averted her gaze shyly. She didn't know if she would've said like or love if she hadn't held back.

Lizzie reached out and grabbed her sister's hand, scooting towards her. "Just... be careful with your heart, Janie," she murmured, squeezing Jane's hand. Jane leaned down towards her, turning to face her more fully. Lizzie reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her sister's ear. She traced the side of Jane's face affectionately. "Once you give it away, you can't get it back," she said sadly, releasing her face and hand. Jane nodded, but Lizzie still didn't feel as if her sister fully understood. She didn't want sweet Jane to know what it felt like, to feel like your heart had been ripped out of your chest and stomped on... to feel used and discarded and so completely wrong.

Lizzie slumped into her pillow. She could sense that Jane wanted to talk more about Bing and love and things like that, but Lizzie didn't have the energy. "You know," Jane said after a moment, clumsily changing the subject, "I saw Darcy walking by the house." She knew what the vaguely mischievous sparkle in Jane's eyes meant, but Lizzie wasn't in the mood for one of her sister's oblique hints about Darcy liking her. That was Jane for you, mistaking lust for something purer. "He looked sweaty," Jane added a minute later, making a face that was no doubt meant to entice Lizzie into making a sarcastic response.

Ordinarily she would've, but she was too tired to bother. Instead, Lizzie merely snorted and said knowingly, "I'll bet." She could just picture him walking down the lane, back to wherever he'd parked his car, still sweaty, his typically immaculate appearance still somewhat rumpled from earlier. And they were the only two who had any idea why; Jane didn't even suspect. It was almost enough to make her chuckle. Jane frowned at her sister, feeling like she was missing something. "Can I sleep now?" Lizzie asked in a voice that bordered on a whine.

Jane reached over to feel Lizzie's forehead. She'd wondered why Lizzie was napping in the middle of the afternoon. It wasn't unusual per se, but it wasn't exactly like her either. Lizzie's forehead and face felt warm and clammy. Her skin was flushed all over from what Jane could see. She saw the damp hair matted at Lizzie's temples and had noticed that her hair was messier than usual. She'd also seen as the sweat that had cooled on her skin in a thin, shiny glaze. "You're burning up, Lizzie," Jane exclaimed, thinking it a fever. After all, she'd been sick herself a few weeks ago, so it didn't seem so unlikely. Lizzie merely nodded sleepily. "Are you feeling all right?"

Lizzie nodded again, snuggling into her pillow. "'m fine, Janie, just tired. I'll just sleep it off," she mumbled, waving it off. Her voice was slightly muffled by her sheets. Jane pursed her lips, pushing some of the cool, damp hair away from Lizzie's face. She was an older sister; of course she would still worry. It was practically in her DNA. Lizzie swatted at her sister's hand. "Stop hovering, Jane, and just let me sleep," she said, letting out a great yawn.

Jane let out a breath. She knew something was off with her sister, something bigger than just a cold or fever, even if she couldn't put her finger on it. But she couldn't do anything about it until Lizzie told her. "All right, fine, I'll go, but I'm checking on you later," Jane cautioned, standing up and tucking Lizzie in. Lizzie mumbled something and turned away from her. Jane walked over and turned the air conditioner up before leaving her sister's room, quietly shutting the door behind her. She couldn't help but feel, however, like she hadn't exactly had the conversation she'd wanted to have with Lizzie. There were still things she felt should've been said. But, then again, Jane supposed, she could surely talk to Lizzie about Bing and their carpools later.

When the door closed, Lizzie sighed in relief and promptly fell blissfully into unconsciousness.

- Loren ;*


End file.
